But I thought you loved me too
by Lock Lokidottir
Summary: Joanne 'Joan' Watson is trying to survive without her lover Sherlock after he jumped from the roof of Barts. Struggling to come to terms with his death, Joan tries to forget… but she gets an unexpected surpise that that ensures exacly the opposite.
1. The fall

Joan Watson, of all people, was quickly loosing patience.

She didn't know what did it- whether it was having to buy a new oven for the flat after waking up and having it looking like it had collapsed onto itself ('It was an experiment, Joan!' her lover had whined, pouting), or the sick feeling in her stomach, or if it was just the sheer desperation that made her watch the clock- which, annoyingly, seemed to go one second forwards and three backwards.

All in all, her work day way very boring, and if she was totally honest (which she always tried to be) she couldn't wait to get out.

It was about lunchtime that Joan received a call. Strictly speaking, she wasn't allowed, so she ghosted down the corridor, or as discreetly as you can with your phone wailing a rather loud, and embarrassing tune (Sherlock set it- please, don't ask). Her eyes scanned the hallway, looking for anywhere she could accept the call. The Doctors bathroom always had someone in it, so she almost sighed in relife as she spotted the janitors cupboard.

She had already guessed who it was as she slid down the wall of the cramped janitors cupboard and gently kicked the door shut. Flicking it open, her thoughts were correct- it was strange, Sherlock never called if she was at work.

'Sherlock?' she asked, fiddling with the mop that lay beside her.

'Joan?'

Just that one syllable said by him was enough to make her heart flutter. 'Mmm, what's up?'

'Can you come outside?'

'Sherlock!' she hissed, frowning. ''You do know I'm on a shift, right?'

She was sure she heard a shuddery breath. 'Please?'

She could start to feel her heart thud faster. Sherlock- _Sherlock _never said anything relatively polite. Never. She allowed herself a smile- maybe her politeness was rubbing off on Sherlock, the 'high-functioning sociopath' and worlds only consulting detective.

Before she knew it, she was up, tripping over buckets and god knows whatever else in a hurry to reach the door. Flinging it open, she blinked in the light before it clouded over and was blocked by Sarah.

Joan groaned.

Not only had Sarah lately been giving Joan a hard time, but everything she seemed to do threatened her job- '_Clean up that patient, or you'll be out of here_.', 'Doctor Watson,_ I cannot tolerate lateness, and if I see it one more time, you'll be out'_, '_Joanne, if you _don't _get a bloody move on now, I swear, you_ will_ be gone by the end of the day_!'

If she was honest, she couldn't care less. No more work at Barts? Brilliant! No more whining, snotty children or worked up adults getting worried about nothing, no more cleaning up, and no more cranky old people. It sounded like a dream- lately, she hadn't been bothered if she had arrived at work late, or if she accidently messed up and gave Prozac to the teenager with the sore throat and the depressed man the cough syrup… it was terribly unprofessional, but...

It was because of Sherlock was on her mind all day. Working with him instead of at the hospital was the lesser of two evils.

Working with Sherlock, she reasoned, probably was a good thing. Sherlock could make her jump hoops, if he wanted. Or scream in frustration.

Ever since they became lovers, or boyfriend/girlfriend, partners whatever you want to call it, just Sherlock whispering her name was enough to make her go weak kneed and her tongue to glue itself to the roof of her mouth. She obviously couldn't go all mushy on Sherlock (she_ had_ been an army doctor, and _had_ had bad days) but the mere thought was enough to make her giggle.

Which is why, given Sarah's quick irritability, Joan just barged her out of the way. She was already half way down the corridor when Sarah's brain clicked about what happened.

'Doctor Watson,' she hissed realising Joan's intentions at once. Catching up with Joan, she placed a firm grip on her shoulder and turned Joan round to face her. 'If you leave now, you won't come back. Do I make myself clear?'

'Crystal.' she felt her cheeks push up in a smile... what else did she have to loose?

Joan leaned in closer, so close that her and her bosses nose were nearly touching. 'I don't know what your problem is, Sarah. Maybe it was the date that did it, I have no idea, and if I'm honest, I don't really care. You can stick your job. I don't want it- I _quit_!'

And, with that Doctor Watson shook of Sarah, skipped up the hallway, knocking a traveling patients IV drip on the way.

And also leaving a dumbstuck Sarah in the middle of the hallway, mouth agape. As she saw the blue scrubs and flaxen hair disappear through the double doors, she felt a sinking horror. Doctor Sarah Sawyer had just lost one of the best doctors in the hospital.

Uh-oh. Sarah was going to pay for that one.

…..

'Go backwards.'

Joan sighed in frustration- she was now outside Barts, dressed only in the light scrubs, and she was freezing. 'Sherlock, what's going on?'

And then Joan saw.

'I… I can't come down, so I'm gonna have to do it from up here.'

Sherlock was stood, on the edge of the hospital's roof. His coat was billowing, no sign of blood or wounds (or at least, Joan couldn't tell if there was)his face pale and curly dark hair flopping about in the wind.

What Joan found most worrying was the fact that he was stood _so very close_ to the edge.

Her voice almost died in her throat.

'What's going on?'

'An apology- I am… a fake.'

'Sherlock-' came the strangled reply through her numb lips. She suddenly had feelings in her legs, so started to jog towards the building in question.

'Stay where you are! Don't move-'

'-Alright, alright-'

'Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, can you do this for me?' Sherlock's voice broke.

'Do what?'

'This… this phone call-' she heard heavy breathing on the end of the line. 'It is… my note.'

Joan's heart sunk to somewhere below her knees- but she didn't know how to reply. Obviously, she had replied to suicide implement before, but that was to people she didn't know, that she would never see again. But this was Sherlock, her best friend, lover, a genius and the worlds' only consulting detective.

'Sherlock? Sherlock, please, don't- please?'

He paused, before saying slowly….

'I love you. Goodbye, Joan.'

The line went dead in Joan's hands.

'Sherlock!' She screamed.

Spreading his arms as though he was a about to fly, Sherlock leaned forward until the momentum was enough to make him loose his footing. His arms and legs moving slightly, his coat flying up behind him, he fell.

'_Don't worry Sherlock,'_ Moriarty has said to him earlier. '_Jumping is just like flying, but with a more… permanent __destination__…'_

And suddenly, with a sickening thump, Sherlock hit the ground.

Joan didn't know a red light that had been dancing on her chest for the past five minutes had just disappeared.

…..

It took a few seconds to comprehend what happened.

Another building was in her way after all, but when she did, she ran as fast as she could over to where Sherlock was. She ran across the road, not really caring about the near miss she had with a car, or the abuse shouted by drivers. The only thing that mattered to her was Sherlock, lying perfectly still on the ground.

Only, she was nearly there, so close, when a biker came out of nowhere and knocked her to the ground.

Her head hit the tarmac. She had ringing in her ears. Joan was dimly aware her eyes were closed, and, really, she wanted to just lay here.

Everything she loved- herself in a whole other person- was lying there, a few meters away. The possibility, the statistics of Sherlock still being alive were dwindling. He fell, what, 30 meters? And on to his head, oh my god…

But there was a chance, no matter how small, he was still alive. Joan pushed those negative thoughts out of her mind.

She got up, ignoring the bleeding scrapes on her hands, and the first few steps was like running a marathon.

She pushed her way through the thickening crowd, who seemed desperate to keep her away. The man in front with a suit and stupid bloody umbrella on kept on gently elbowing her in the diaphragm. She grabbed his elbow and shoved him sideways.

'Let me through, I'm his girlfriend!' she snapped. 'Let me through, dammit, I-'

With wrestling and more shoving, she saw Sherlock.

The medical part of her brain shut down.

My god, she had never seen that much blood. Well, she had, but never in real life- things like this only happened in horror films. Even wounded soldiers with bullets through their brains and hearts lost less blood. People never bled that much- did they?

Sherlock, up until that point, had been lying face down. Out of no-where, the doctors in the hospital were pulling him up and onto a gurney.

Joan grasped his wrist, and she wasn't sure if it was her imagination, sheer desperation but she was sure that she saw Sherlock's silvery-green eyes flicker up to hers, just for a moment before they closed.

And, with that, her grip loosened and he was wheeled away.

Joan was a medical woman. She was meant to be tough, to try and feel detached from her emotions and not to care much if she lost a patient. It hurt, yes, but she never dropped to her knees and held her head in her hands.

But this was Sherlock, her best friend, lover, a genius and the worlds' only consulting detective.

She allowed the tears to flow freely down her face and her knees to buckle.


	2. But I thought he loved me too

'Can I see him?'

Dressed in his suit, and stupid umbrella Mycroft- the elder Holmes- was wearing his famous poker face.

'I wouldn't advise that, Doctor Watson.'

Joan tugged at her hair, not really caring if she ripped some out by the roots. Mycroft suspected she was close to breaking point, for she hadn't shed a single tear yet. Although, she sobbed- the odd, little breathy ones, similar to a panic attack- would shake her whole frame and momentarily her grip on her hair would weaken.

'Please!'

Joanne knew she was stepping into Mycroft's personal space, but, dammit, he was His brother. She grabbed his lapels, and, realising her mistake, stepped back slightly, letting her grip weaken. It wasn't her mission to piss off Mycroft- at least, not today.

….

Despite popular belief, Mycroft Holmes did have a heart- no matter how deep it was, he was fairly sure it was there. Seeing the wide eyed desperation, he gave cleared his throat. Joan stepped away, and he could feel his lapel uncurl. He smoothed it down.

'I'll see what I can do.'

As he turned away, fishing his blackberry out of his pockets, he heard something that sounded like a breathy whisper. Mycroft turned around, observing the shaking doctor with her stuck up hair, spiked lashes (she had been tugging at them) who kept pinching the flesh on her forearm every few seconds- she was either a very good actress, or she really did love Sherlock and was heading towards a nervous breakdown. Mycroft thought rather strongly it was the latter.

'I'm sorry, Doctor Watson, I didn't hear…?'

Joan gave a shuddery breath before repeating herself.

'I said… thank you.'

Mycroft smiled, before texting Molly. She needed a warning.

….

Joan had prepared herself. No stupid whimpers she was periodically escaped her lips, nothing else that would give her pitying looks.

As Mycroft accompanied her down the hallway, she made an effort to square her shoulders, unblock her nose and generally pulled herself together. Mycroft never said a word, which she was very grateful for- if he did, it might remind her of Him (after all, they _were_ brothers) and she would curl up into a sobbing ball right there and then.

She didn't really pay attention to where she was going. She followed Mycroft, feeling out of it, who was slightly in front of her. She was surprised when he held open a door, and gave her the 'Do-you-want-some-alone-time?' look. Joan closed her eyes, breathed deeply and nodded.

She walked into the room and saw Molly. She looked well, Joan noted, with her flushed cheeks and hair messily tied up in a bun. When she saw Joan her smile dropped (which made her heart clench, after being reminded of the time He did that while asking to see Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukiss in the Blind Banker case)and she looked away, apparently being fascinated by some shiny scalpels on the side. After a few seconds Molly looked up.

'You're here to see him.'

It wasn't a question, thank god- Joan had had enough questions asked by Lestrade, the police and everyone in general to last a lifetime. She had to recount the horrifying story, even though it only happened a two or three hours ago; every time she had to, she felt like someone was plunging one of those shiny scalpels into her heart.

What Molly said was a statement, one she could answer with one word.

'Yes.'

They stood, looking at each other for a few seconds, Molly's eyes flitting about the room. She looked like a rabbit in headlights- so god knows what Joan herself looked like.

Molly gave a look that looked like guilt mixed with pity, before turning around and walking over to one of the tables.

Lifting up the white sheet, Joan tried to keep her face as expressionless, like He did when talking to morons like Anderson. She failed miserably, and felt her face twisting.

'Would you like a, um, moment?' Molly looked more awkward now, and left without a sound when Joan nodded for the second time.

When she heard the door click shut behind her she felt brave enough to walk over and see Him. She knew it was stupid, she hadn't even said His name yet… but it was incredible how two syllables had so much power over her.

Walking closer, she saw him.

Oh, _Sherlock_….

He was so beautiful, even in death. He looked like a fallen angel…. His skin was pale, his hair looking even darker than normal, the closed lids a pale shade of lavender. Gauze had been taped over the wound, and she was pleased to say that no blood had soaked through.

She cleared her throat.

'Sher…lock?' the sound sounded so unfamiliar, she hardly recognised her own voice. So she tried again. '_Sherlock_.'

She didn't really know why, bit she wanted to talk to him. The medical part of her brain was telling her it was the first stage of grief, the same emotion that would soon be crashing down on her in devastating waves, but maybe if she talked long enough, he would respond.

'Oh, Sherlock. Why? Dammit, you could've said. Talked to me- how do I know if you don't say? The police-' her voice cracked, and she violently wiped a tear that had escaped away with her forearm. 'Said it was M-Moriarty. They found him- self-inflicted gun wound, obviously-, now they want to track down his organisation. How great is that? They're all going to crash and _burn_.'

Her heart was pumping so hard her vision was pulsing slightly. There was no stopping her now.

'I'm going to h-h-' she growled in frustration, and felt another shuddery breath rock her frame.. '-help, once I've gotten over this-' she gestured, and another tear fell out of her eye onto the table. 'But that's not why I wanted to talk to you, Sherlock,'

She sighed, and rubbed her now red and sore eyes. Joan suddenly felt so tired, and she allowed herself a small cry.

Once she had gotten herself in control, she lightly touched the back of Sherlock's pale hand. It was cool, unlike Joan's warm hand- she felt so weak that she couldn't bring herself to look at his face again yet. It had been a pet hate of Joan's, as when they'd been in bed and she had been trying to sleep, he would draw random patterns on the skin of Joan's back with one of his cool fingers. It made her squirm, in a good way, and raised goose-bumps. Joan blushed.

'So, yeah.' She cleared her throat, once again addressing the floor. 'Lestrade's devastated. He told me that you were a great man on our first case… and he thinks you'll be a good one Sherlock, no matter what you say about there being no heroes. Or you being a sociopath.' Her lip twitched.

'Heck, even Donovan and Anderson are sort of sad. But I'm devastated, Sherlock. I begged you not to jump, but you did. And I watched you fall, which will scar me for life. I can never forget that look on your face, Sherlock. It will never leave.' She gave a sob, which she hastily covered up as a cough.

'When I came back from Afghanistan, I was a mess. I had the limp and everything. But it wasn't that- I felt depressed, empty and I didn't really feel human. I felt like a monster. I'd killed people, Sherlock, but when I walked into the hospital and I met you... I felt better. I thought you were an arrogant sod, yes, but you were amazing… and on the first case, when I killed the cabby, I realised I had a crush on you.' The tears were really starting to flow now. 'It got worse and worse, and when I told you I liked you, and you felt the same, the feeling was incredible. In thought my heart would burst.' She gave a shaky laugh. 'You liked me to.'

Joan realised her voice was breaking and in places becoming rather high pitched and incoherent. She realised that her breathing and speech had started to quicken, and with a blocked nose she sounded like she was panting.

She could now look at his face and grasped his hand. When she did she could feel a full blown panic attack round the corner, so sped up her speech even more to try and get everything she wanted to say out before she became a blubbering mess.

'And now I won't walk into the flat to find the bread bin has feet in it, or heads in the fridge, or one of your bloody experiments has ruined the oven. I won't chase criminals through London, or hail another phyco cabby of doom, because even if I do it won't be the same. You won't be there! And when you called me, and told me you were a fake, I didn't believe it because _you_ are Sherlock Holmes! And the last thing I said to you was begging you not to jump, not 'I love you'. Because I do, so much it _hurts_! You have no idea. And now you won't ever tell me your brilliant deductions, or moan about crap telly, or whinge about Mycroft's meddling even though you like him really. Please, Sherlock, do something for me. Please. Don't be… dead. S-stop-stop it, stop _this_, please!'

Joan started to breathe, but every breath she took seemed to steal oxygen from her instead of the opposite. Her heart was thudding so hard she could feel it in her soles of her feet and the palms of her hand. The nausea she had felt this morning had come back with a vengeance. She slid her hand out of Sherlocks and rested them on her knees.

She hadn't had a panic attack since coming back from Afghanistan, before she met Sherlock. Jesus, she hadn't remembered how terrifying they were. She was trying to breathe, cry and regulate her breathing at the same time. All that was coming out was animalistic sounds through her clenched teeth- they could only be described as mini-screams.

She distantly heard the door opening and hurried footsteps. Joan turned and was surprised at the embrace offered by Mycroft; she was slightly embarrassed, as he must've heard her screaming. But she took the offer without question.

As she clutched Mycroft's the back of Myroft's jacket, she let herself sink to the floor, taking him with her. The shock of the situation subsided rather suddenly, and crushing grief filled it's place.

Mycroft almost smelled comfortingly like Sherlock. She breathed deeply, her head buried in his shoulder, breathing in the smell of nicotine (_Mycroft smoked?_ Joan thought), coffee, and faintly of that odd hospital smell. She allowed her eyes to close, feeling the panic subside slightly. Mycroft was quite the comforter, Joan thought. When he was rubbing soothing circles on her back, and murmuring something (Joan couldn't quite hear what he said, but she could hear the sound rumbling in his chest). He didn't feel stiff either, and she felt that she could stay there for as long as she needed to.

'I thought he loved me too.'

...

Mycroft closed the door, allowing Joanne some free time with 'Sherlock'. A few minutes later, Molly came out and gave him a small smile before disappearing.

Sherlock wasn't dead, obviously. It was amazing what someone could do with some white paint, ice cubes and a brilliant actor. Sherlock had used a body double, some of the drugs used in the greatly entertaining 'The Houses of Baskerville' case (which made Joanne suggestible that that was defiantly Sherlock on the ground) and the earpiece he had slipped in the day before while he held Joanne had unfortunately fallen out and was crushed by a car. Oh well, it didn't matter. It cost very little, and it had served its purpose.

Sherlock had never fallen off of the roof. He had been watched by Mycroft as he had made the call, which was sent straight to the ear piece. The drugs had messed up her mind slightly, and they should be wearing off in about an hour or so. But, for the moment, Joan thought the short, blond man on the table was Sherlock.

Mycroft had tried to get a closer looking subject, he really had. Although, the had to use whatever bodies were avalible in the morgue- questions would be asked if the subject had been killed simply to suffice for Sherlock. He had been picky- many were too short, to tall, to fat, too blond, to dark... in the end, the closest they could find was the short, rather fat, blond man, which looked nothing like dark, almost gothic looking Sherlock. But Joan would be fooled, he was positive- She wasn't that smart, compared to Sherlock and himself. Even Sherlock had been fooled by the drug- didn't he see a massive, black hound?

Hmph. Joan suddenly flitted through his mind. Mycroft wasn't really surprised that Joanne had reacted the way she did. The shock would wear off soon, he was sure, the tears would fall and Joanne Watson would be crushed by the 'death' of Sherlock. It was natural, just like Sherlock had reacted when Sherlock had been five and their father died. He had remained mute for days, and when the shock subsided they both cried themselves to sleep. Mycroft contributed that event to both of their cold exteriors, even though it was so long ago, the ghost of the pain would always be there.

Well, it was almost like he had died- after the 'funeral', Sherlock would be off to Russia to try and get to Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right hand man.

Ah, Moriarty. He had been bugging the government for a few years now- he was incredibly deadly, incredibly insane and a great nuisance. It had been satisfying, after all of the drama and the planning of Sherlock's death, to see him dead but have his brother, alive and breathing beside him. He used all the bullets up in his gun shooting the man at various points of his body, just in case… They couldn't take any chances.

Mycroft was mulling this over in his mind, his eyes closed. He had no idea how long Joanne would spend with Sherlock. He could pick out words, but it was mainly talking about his death. And he caught a bit near the end- something about heads in fridges? That was a terrible place to put a head, he would really have to speak to Sherlock about that. But, he thought with a chuckle, if it would stop him snacking…

Joanne had been crying for the past five minutes, he was sure of it. But this new sound Joanne was making was quite frightening. It was like gasps, but coming from deep in her chest- it was a deep, almost screaming in frustration sound. It must've been killing Sherlock to listen.

Also, he was worried that Joanne may do something rather stupid. It probably wasn't a good idea to leave her unsupervised in a room full of scalpels.

He opened the door, and hurried towards Joanne. He caught sight of her- and she looked terrible. Her pupils were dilated, lashes spiked and she was gasping. Her face was tear streaked and her hair stuck up at odd angles.

Normal people hugged, or at least he had seen them in times like this. But still, Mycroft couldn't understand what had made him do it. He crossed the room and hugged Joanne, and was rather surprised when she sobbed and virtually dragged him down to the floor.

Mycroft stole a look at 'Sherlock' while Joanne was making the shoulder of his jacket sodden. Jake Whych lay on the table, motionless- judging by Joans' reaction, she had been fooled. Sherlock was safe.

Joan scream was muffelled by his jacket.

'I thought he loved me too!'

For a second, he became still. How did he react to that? For the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes had nothing to say.

Instead, he made soothing circles on Joans back, while muttering silly things like 'It's okay, shush, it's fine'. Mycroft never got why people did that- things for Joanne, for a very long time, wouldn't be fine. However, Mycroft would be there for as long as he was needed- he wasn't Sherlock, but he was the closest thing to him that Joanne would get.

...

Mycroft insisted that she would be dropped her home. Meanwhile, Joan had become blank. She talked when spoken to, but apart from that, she never spoke. She remained blank, which gave Mycroft chills; Joan Watson was never blank, she had a face that was constantly changing to suit the emotions that she felt at the time.

He was sat in the back, Anthea (now going by Ella today) on one side and Joan on the other. It was a twenty minute journey or so… Mycroft cleared his throat.

'Joanne?'

'Yes, Mycroft?' Joan turned to him. He did a quick deduction, and drew a blank. He frowned slightly, and did it again. Nothing.

He sighed- he had only wanted to look at her face,but he now felt like he should ask a question. 'Do you prefer Joanne or Joan?'

'I don't mind.'

He bit the question that was about to escape from his lips ('Why's that?'). Instead, Mycroft nodded. He got it- sort of. It didn't really make sense to him, but he felt Joanne had been questioned so much today she was incredibly close to snapping.

What he found strange is that Joanne talked about Sherlock in different tenses. Sometimes, she talked about him like he was still alive, other times it was past tense.

All to soon, they were at 221B Baker Street. Mycroft insisted walking her to her door- he wasn't taking any chances. Mortiarty's men were out there still…. Somewhere. without a leader, they would be having a riot now, he was sure.

…

Mycroft walking Joan to the door… how sweet.

She gave him what she though looked like a smile, but her face felt more like it was a grimance. She was sure Mycroft would see through it in seconds.

She had no more tears left now, and her throat was raw from the crying and screaming. She was exhausted, and felt every one of her thirty-three years as she unlocked the door to 221B.

As soon as she walked in, Mrs Hudson didn't bound at her like she usually did. She stood, loitering at the staircase. Joan gave her the same smile she gave Mycroft. Mrs Hudson gave Joanne the look of pity that she was sick of seeing.

'Joan, I-'

'It's not Joan anymore, Mrs Hudson.' Joan said, a bit to forcefully, shrugging off her jacket and hanging it up on the wall, before turning to Mrs Hudson slowly. 'That's what he called me, before… before this. It's Joanne.'

Mrs Hudson said nothing as Joanne went up the stairs. Mrs Hudson wanted to say something, but what could she say? Nothing came to her as she watched Joan- sorry, Joanne- trudge up the stairs.

…

'That was the worst experience of my life.' Sherlock said blandly. Mycroft was sure he saw a tear make its late debeut, but it was hard to tell- it was sunset in London, and the tinted windows made it hard to see. Mycroft ignored it.

'You did what was best. I mean, it was her or-'

Sherlock lost concentration. Why wouldn't Mycroft just shut up? He needed Joan, he needed his violin and he needed quiet (in that order). It would be months, maybe years (his heart squeezed rather painfully at that prospect) before he would see her again. He wished he could explain, but he couldn't- poor Joan. She thought he was dead in an elaborate hoax to fool Moriarty's men. Another tear sprang to his eye, and he didn't bother to wipe it away.

He was such a horrible person. She was so sad- how would he ever get her to trust him again? That caused a sob to wrack through his whole frame- which left him quite surprised. He looked down at his hands in amazment- they were shaking.

Sometime after Mycroft had stopped talking, they pulled up at Sherlock's hotel. He got out without a sound, and took his suitcase from the back. He was just about to turn away when he heard Mycroft speak.

'It was for the best, Sherlock. She is safe.'

Was it for the best? If they were both unhappy, his lover was grieving and technically, he wasn't safe **yet. **Really, what was for the best?

For the first time in his life, Sherlock didn't have an answer.


	3. There is nothing wrong with me

The next few days past in a blur.

Joan spent the first day just laying in hers and Sherlock's bed, staring into space. Her mobile phone rang, and rang, and rang; usually people offering their condolences. After about the sixth call, Joan switched her phone off and threw it on the side.

On the second day, she slept- the night before, she had spent sobbing. The first time she closed her eyes, she saw Sherlock falling- that was enough to make Joan's eyes wrench open, covered in glistening sweat, ready to have another howl in the pillow.

Mrs Hudson came in occasionally, offering to tidy up; Joan declined the offer rather forcefully.

Getting rid or packing away the experiments, the books, skull and violin would make it seem like Sherlock had never existed, that he had never been apart of Joanne's life. It would mean that she would wake up, and find that the past two years or so had been an incredible dream.

When Mrs Hudson came up on the third day, Joanne closed her eyes, faking sleep. She could feel Mrs Hudson standing there, at the bottom of the bed. After a few moments, she sighed and closed a wardrobe- whether it was hers or Sherlock's she wasn't sure. It had started to annoy Joan- it kept popping open- but in all honesty she couldn't be bothered to close it.

On the third or fourth day, after ignoring drinks and food, Joanne got up for the first time and got herself a drink.

On the way back, she noticed the door of Sherlock's wardrobe was open- it looked like it had been opened in a hurry. Letting her curiosity get the better of her (even though she knew it would kill her later) she opened it more.

The wasn't many clothes in there. She flicked through the hangers, and at the end she got one of the biggest surprises of her life.

The coat- _his_ coat- was hanging there innocently, the grey-blue fabric absorbing the new found warmth from the window just behind her.

Joan couldn't believe it. She felt her breathing quicken and tears smart her eyes…_ his_ coat. She quickly scrabbled to undo the buttons and get it off the hanger. It came free, limp in her hands.

A crystalline tear escaped the corner of her eye as she sat, cross legged on the floor, looking at the material as if it was going to bite her. Joan slowly raised it to her nose, and sniffed. It smelt like Sherlock- Nicotine, Axe body spray, coffee, the slight undertone of a chemical- bleach?- and of violin resin that he put on his bow. A few more tears escaped her eyes.

Joanne had no idea how long she sat like that. It could've been hours, or minutes, or seconds, but all she truly knew was that she held onto that coat for dear life.

…

'It worked.'

Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes were staring at the tiny mobile screen in front of them while walking. After a few hours of sitting there, crying, Joanne had eventually fallen asleep on the floor; still clutching Sherlock's coat.

'Better than expected,' Sherlock agreed, pocketing the phone. 'I didn't know how she would react. What day's the funeral?'

'Tuesday- a week from now. It's only going to be small, but-'

The phone made a small sound: Mycroft frowned, before looking at Sherlock questioningly. Sherlock's lip twitched.

'She sleep talks.'

'What did she say?'

Sherlock was silent for a moment, before the phone made the same sound again.

'She said…'_Sherlock... I love you.'__'_ he smiled.

…..

Mycroft dropped in on the sixth day.

How he knew she hadn't been eating, she didn't know. Probably some high tech monitoring system- she wouldn't put anything past him (he was basically_ The_ Government, after all).

Mycroft had let himself in and started busying around the kitchen. Joan didn't say a word, she just sat on the bed, Sherlock's coat beside her.

A few moments later, Mycroft came in with some jammy toast on a plate in one hand, two cups of tea in the other. He set her tea down on the bedside table, the plate in front of Joan.

'Thanks.'

Mycroft gave a tight lipped smile. Joanne had no intentions of eating- instead she went straight for the cup of tea and drank it all, despite it being scolding hot.

After a few minutes (in which Joan was playing with her food, and not eating it) Mycroft spoke.

'You can't keep torturing yourself.' He said gently. Joan's eyes snapped up.

'What?' she snapped.

'I said, you can't keep torturing yourself.'

'I'm not. Who said I am? I am fine. See?' she gestured to herself. 'Fine. There is _nothing _wrong with me, Mycroft Holmes, do you understand?'

Mycroft looked up sadly. 'Joanne, I believe there is. There are scratch and… _bite _marks on your arms-' Joan hid her arms, embarrassed. '-which are obviously self-inflicted. You've been drinking a fair amount, but not eating. The tea you've just drank was at boiling point, and I know that drinking it that fast without letting it cool has burnt your mouth- once, it would've been fine. But you _keep_ doing it. There is so much more evidence that is right in front of you. So please, Joanne, don't insult my intelligence.'

There was a short pause.

'I've been eating.' Joan lied.

Mycroft snorted.

'Joan, you've been eating much, much less than usual. If I daresay, smaller portions my brother.'

Joan looked down at the bruises on her arms, and traced them absentmindedly. She wasn't going to let Mycroft intimidate her, not this time, or try and persuade her by using Sherlock's death as a weapon. But she was getting kind of hungry….her gaze fell onto the toast, and she picked one up and took a bite. She chewed, swallowed, and took another bite until the slice was gone. She started on the second, and Mycroft visibly relaxed.

'Thank you.'

Joan smiled.

_Sorry for the short chapter, I wrote it when ill. I hope you like it so far, because I'll add more soon! Please rate and review! :-)_


	4. The old man and the cane

Another tear escaped her eye as the wind tickled her hair, and Lestrade put an arm around her shoulders.

It was a very short service, and a non-religious one too. Then again, Joan never thought Sherlock as the religious type- after all, he was the human who aspired to be God. Joan sobbed and she felt Lestrade's arm tighten.

Mycroft was there, as well as Mrs Hudson, an old man that Joan had never seen before- Sherlock and Mycroft's father?-, Molly, Greg Lestrade as well as, surprisingly, Sally Donovan.

The funeral took place outside, as the weather was fine. The casket was closed, and all the women were crying- even Greg looked distressed. Mycroft read out the eulogy.

At Joan's request, everyone held a pink rose- while Sherlock had never been one for symbolisms (especially ones like flowers) but she choose pink roses to symbolise Sherlock's joy of life, youth and energy. Joanne, on the other hand, held a bouquet with red, pink, white, lavender, orange and yellow roses. She lost count of the meanings…. _Eternal love, beauty, intense emotions, grace, desire, carelessness_…. Sherlock had them all.

The funeral ended, everyone sniffed and cried and blew their noses and paid their respects. As they did, they dropped their roses onto the casket and murmured a few words before the next person came.

Joan was last, and she gently laid her flowers on the casket, making sure to brush the coffin as she did so. A tear splashed onto one of the petals.

'Goodbye, Sherlock. I'll love you always.'

…..

'Joan?'

Everyone had gone home by now, Joan had thought. Mycroft had offered her a lift, but she declined. She was sat on a bench in the graveyard. She wasn't crying- she didn't think it was possible that she had any tears left- observing the scene.

It really was a beautiful place, for a graveyard. It was dark now, the stars glinting and winking in the sky, and the silvery moon hung there. There were many leafy trees, not very many headstones (half a dozen, at the most) but those that were there were quite far apart.

Joan had insisted on a dark marble gravestone, with a simple golden inscription.

_Sherlock Holmes_

_The song has ended, but the melody lingers on_

She sighed.

'Joan?'

Joan looked up in surprise.

'Oh, hullo.' Joanne said. She saw a cane,and so she scooted up the bench. 'Want to sit down?'

It was the old man she had seen earlier, leaning heavily on his cane. She never knew he had stayed in the graveyard. With Joans offer, the old man sat down quite heavily.

Sherlock would've been able to deduct so much by now, even by this dim light, but all Joan saw was an old man in a suit. She sighed again and rubbed hard at her face.

'You okay?' the old man asked with concern.

Joan gave a humourless laugh.

'Far from it.' The man looked at Joanne in surprise. They sat in silence for a minute, and Joan felt rude not to say anything. She cleared her throat. 'So, how did you know Sherlock? You were at his funeral, but he's never mentioned you.'

'I'm an old friend,' the man smiled. His forehead then crumpled into a frown. 'What's wrong?'

Joanne looked at him in a mixture of surprise, annoyance and horror. 'You do know that we've just attended a funeral? _Sherlock's_ funeral? I'm sorry if I'm not jumping up and down and laughing, but-'

'Sorry, sorry.' The elderly man held up his hands, and Joan felt all her anger evaporate. She pinched the bridge of her nose. 'I spoke without thinking. I'm sorry.'

'Mmm…' she rubbed her face again, then her hand gripped her hair and tugged slightly before letting her hand go limp and slide down her face. 'If you really want to know-' the old man looked up. '- I loved him. Very much, but I never got to tell him that. I want to tell him I'm sorry- I never even bothered to ask him how his brilliant mind worked, and I never will. It's only when someone dies that you realise how little you knew about them.'

'I'm sorry.'

It was only when Joan felt slick wetness on her cheek that she realised she was crying. She faced away from the man and dabbed it with her sleeve, being careful not to smudge her makeup. Hang on a second- it had started to rain! Perfect. It was 7:55, the time when full up cabbies would be at their peak.

'Joan?'

A different voice this time. Higher pitched- but still a man.

Lestrade was hurrying towards her, eyes sewed up against the rain and wind, his coat over his head to try and deflect some of the rain.

'You're still here? It's been five hours!'

'I was talking to someone, Greg.'

'Who?'

'The man- you know, the guy at the funeral. Gah, I didn't ask for his name,' She looked at the seat next to her- the old man had gone, vanished into the night. Joan stared at the spot. 'He was here! Like, right here! I-I was just talking to him! Oh, for Christ sake…'

Lestrades eyebrows were somewhere near his hairline. He looked like he was about to say something, but he stopped himself. Instead he stepped closer to Joan.

'Uh, listen, I was wondering if you wanted to get a drink in the pub. I tried to call you, but your mobiles switched off.'

'Yeah, sorry… ' Joan was about to think of an excuse, but she felt like she needed a sense of normality back in her life. She couldn't push everyone away, no matter how dark she felt. 'You know what? Let go get a pint.'

…

It was only when she stepped through the door of 221B that the death had really hit her hard.

Any moment now, she was hoping she would wake up, that this had all been a horrible nightmare. Joan would wake up, gasping, and find Sherlock beside her, watching her intently with those grey eyes of his. She would then tell him all about it, and he would listen with all the sympathy he had in his body while Joan would gather herself together, let the shock levels come down while Sherlock would kiss her neck tenderly and stroke her hair and back. There would be no sex, just the enjoyment of the company of one another as Joan fell asleep, curled into Sherlock's chest.

But no matter how hard she tried to wake up, it didn't work.

Sherlock- _her _Sherlock, the amazing genius- was gone forever. She slid down the door, her knees drawn up to her chin, her eyes screwed up. Her dress quickly became damp.

Whoa, hang on a second. She suddenly stopped crying, shuddering breaths catching in her chest. She heard it, right? The pitter patter of feet in slippers? Her eyes widened- Mrs Hudson was moving about in her bedroom downstairs.

Joan glanced at her watch. It was 2 o'clock in the morning... She'd woken her landlady up. _Shit!_

Joan couldn't get up the stairs fast enough.

….

Joanne stood naked in front of the mirror, her clothes in a pile just by the side of her.

What did Sherlock find so appealing about her? She prodded her stomach, pinched her face and tried her best not to gnaw through her lip.

She started with her feet, twisting and turning in the mirror. God, she was so flat footed, and she had cankles. Then there were her shins, and thighs….

Joan Watson wasn't fat, as such, just short and quite muscular… stocky, some might say. Lately, the muscle had been toned down and was barley visible. Twisting her body, she looked at her legs. Everything seemed slightly distorted. Where her legs really THAT big? She was sure she hadn't put on that much weight.

Then there was her stomach and hips. She had a boyish figure, or rectangular. Not really much shape there, just up and down. She pinched her hips- there was an inch of fat on each hip, and as she moved onto her stomach, she felt loathing rise up in her chest.

It was defiantly bigger than when she had last looked. God, and her stomach was so flabby, but she had quite a bit of muscle underneath. Why couldn't that show through instead?

And then there was her chest and face- she looked like a boy, for Christ sake. Her chest was almost completely flat, and her round face had a square chin, stubby nose and deeper set blue eyes. Her face was now quickly becoming red and blotchy as she fought the tears that stung her eyes, threatening to overspill.

She ran a frustrated hand through her hair and tugged hard. Joan gave a humourless laugh- Sherlock never fancied her. Who would? Sherlock was like a god, compared to her. It had just been the thrill, the adrenaline of having something- namely, Joan- that was classified as forbidden, that wasn't Sherlock's in the first place. It was too good… how could Joanne have been so _stupid?_

She was damaged, broken goods. Afghanistan, quitting her job and Sherlock funeral- this was enough to push her over the edge.

Joans thoughts hummed angrily, banging and ricocheting of the insides of her skull.

If Sherlock had really loved her, he would've chosen her over whatever Moriarty had done. But he didn't; only highlighting the point that he cared more about his work, more about Moriarty than he ever did about his lover, the one he had left so selfishly behind.

Joan heard a frustrated scream, and she was surprised when the full length mirror cracked into many pieces and clattered, shattering, onto the tile floor.

…..

'Oh! Ouch… '

After a few moments her eyes followed her outstretched arm, which connected to a wrist and then a clenched hand. On queue, the shooting pain in her hand started.

Joan's knuckles were now bleeding, and she was sure she had some embedded glass in there. When she removed her hand, some powdered glass floated gently to the floor, making the bath mat look like it had had glitter poured over it by an over enthusiastic child.

Joan gathered the glass together with her bleeding hand and placed it in the corner. She'd dispose of it later.

Switching on the shower, she grabbed the loafer and scrubbed hard, wishing that she could scrub away the past two-and-a-half weeks.

Only, things weren't that easy, but how she wished they were.


	5. Shock

Hi guys *waves!*. Thank you so so so much for your awesome support. I'm being bombarded by emails telling me that people have added me to their alert list, or liked the story. It's incredible- please, keep it coming. Reccomend this to your friends- the more people I get rating and reviewing, the more often I'll write and try and get the chapters up. :-)

A special thanks goes out to 88dragon06, for reviewing twice, Swirling Dreams for being my first ever reviewers, and Kasca Black for putting my story above her Uni work- still in shock!

Anyway, enough of me chuntering on and on. Chapter five is now up and running- a little surprise for you all!

* * *

Over the next two weeks, Mycroft kept on visiting at the most unexpected times.

He never sent anyone round to check up on her (if you'll forgive her phrasing), it was always the man himself. That gesture- after all, he was an incredibly busy man- meant more to her than she was prepared to say. It was like having a less eccentric, fatter, redheaded Sherlock keeping her company.

They bore more resemblance than one would see at first glance. For a start, they both had the same piercing gaze that made you feel like you were being X-rayed. Then there was the crooked smile, and the loud laugh. Little things that seemed to be recessive in the Holmes family, and for the first time in a month, Joan felt herself smile- and she meant it. When Mycroft wasn't busy being intimidating and making grown men cower, he was surprisingly quite good company.

Three days and two weeks after Sherlock's funeral (just over four weeks in total, and yes, she'd been keeping count), Mycroft was round, and he spotted the mirror shards in the little bin outside the bathroom door, which Joan had put out ready for the bin outside. He gave Joan 'that' gaze.

'I…' Joan looked down, ashamed and tried to hide her bandaged hand behind her back. 'I broke it.'

'I see; you didn't trip into it, judging by the size and angle of the shards. It looks like you hit it- and your hand tells me I'm correct. If I may ask, was there a motive?'

'I didn't like what I saw.'

Joanne quickly skirted round Mycroft and picked up the bin and went inside the bathroom.

There was a little compartment under the sink, where the feminine products were kept- there was just too many to have out (Sherlock loved to stockpile everything). Joan balanced on her injured hand and stared at the tampons and pads. Something clicked in her head.

She threw the bin in the cupboard, feeling her heartbeat and breathing quicken. She counted the weeks on her hand…_ Four…. Five…. Six_…. _Seven_...It had been seven weeks since her last period. She felt horror squeeze her insides- she had never been a day- let alone seven _weeks_- late in her life. It was always a four week cycle.

Oh Jesus…. She imagined a mini Sherlock… or a Sherlockette or something running around and melting the oven. So soon too-Sherlock had only been dead four weeks, even if it seemed much longer… and, because life was a bitch, she was now pregnant. How could she have not realised? Or, if it hadn't been for the mirror shards, when would she'd have realised? Her hand flew up to her hair- if she carried on pulling it like she was, she'd have non left by next year.

_Possibly pregnant_. The medical Dr Watson kicked in- not the increasingly frightened Joan. Before she started panicking, she needed to be sure first- it could just be a blip. Stress could be a factor, but…

'My-' Joan bit her lip, and breathed deeply. She tried again. 'Mycroft? Can you come here… please?'

A second later Mycroft Holmes appeared in the doorway, staring at Joanne with a neutral expression. Seeing her crouched on the floor, he frowned.

'Is everything alright?'

'Mycroft… I think I may be pregnant.'

There was a short silence.

'I see.'

Joan burst into laughter, her head in her hands. ''I see''… was that the best he could come up with? It was so… Sherlock-ish. She knew it covered up the nervousness, the shock, and all the other emotions the man on the other side of the room was feeling.

She heard smaller footsteps come up the stairs and into the hallway.

'Oh, hello Mycroft.' She heard Mrs Hudson say. She could almost picture Mrs Hudson smile warmly at him. Joan tried to breathe- in, out, in, out, in, out- while trying to control her slightly hysterical laughter.

She had always wanted children- it had been an ambition since she had been tiny and held a baby Harry for the first time. She had locked that desire away a long time ago when she had enrolled in the army. When she came back, a long time before she met Sherlock, she never had a child, or boyfriend, because she was damaged. Broken. Ever since she had come back after being shot, she never once thought herself as 'mother' material.

But more recently, the desire had broken out of it's rusty chains. Now she thought about it, she had always wanted a child. Sherlock's obviously, but they were always so busy. What happened if Sherlock or herself had gotten hurt? Killed? You couldn't leave a child- it was just so selfish… so she never mentioned it. Another thing she could've asked, but never bothered.

Regret stabbed at her heart and that killed the laughter in her throat.

She looked up in time to see Mycroft give Mrs Hudson an award winning smile, and she saw the little old woman blush. Her head turned and her eyes widened as she saw Joanne on the floor.

'Is she okay? What's the matter with Joanne?'

'Joan's… had a bit of a fright. She's fine, and it's a long story,' Mycroft said hurriedly, shooing the Mrs Hudson away. 'She just needs some peace and quiet.'

She heard Mrs Hudson leave. Mycroft joined her on the floor, and grabbed her shoulders, shaking her slightly.

'Oh, God….'

'Joan, are you alright? Is it Sherlock's? Are you going to keep it, or what? What ab-'

'That's is the most I've ever heard you say: Yes, obviously it is Sherlock's kid, yes, I think I need a while to calm down, and yes… I plan to keep it. It's the only piece of Sherlock I have left.'

Mycroft's frown faltered at the last sentence and he sat back on his heels. It was so odd, seeing him look so lost. It looked like the lines were blurred now, and he was no longer the machine. He was now powerless against the situation that unfolded around him… it made him look almost human. 'Are you sure? I mean, that you are really… you know.'

'No, not yet. I don't know if it's the stress, but I'm six weeks late. I've never been a day late in my life.'

In an instant, Mycroft's phone was out of his pocket and Joan was sure he was texting, Ella, Anthea or whatever his P.A's name was. His long fingers were flying across the mini keyboard, and within a minute he slid the phone back into his pocket.

They looked at each other for a few seconds, and suddenly her vision was clouded by Mycroft's chest. He helped Joanne up, but his moves were restricted, and stiff; almost like he expected Joan to break into a thousand pieces if she was handled to roughly.

Joan allowed herself to be walked into the lounge, and she flopped down in an armchair, Mycroft following suit.

Joan admitted,she was terrified. What happened if she was over reacting, if it was just the stress? She would loose the tiny hope that she had left of ever having Sherlock's child… and with it, of ever being a mother. Lets face it, she had (and only ever) loved Sherlock. He was _h__er _Sherlock- and because of the fact that he was quite asexual when they had first met, she had assumed that he hadn't had a girlfriend in a long time (if ever). She couldn't picture herself with anyone else.

But what happened if she wasn't over reacting; that she was, you know… _pregnant_. The word sounded unfamiliar on her tongue. Alien.

How would the child turn out? She pictured a mini Sherlock running around…could she cope?

_Dammit, Watson,_ her internal dialog scolded her. _Don't worry. You're not even sure if you are… yet_

_But what if I am? What if I'm a terrible mother? What i-_

_What if? Pull yourself together, girl! You think way too much…Who cares? Would you love the kid?_

_Yes, but-_

_Would you care about it?_

Obviously,_ it's mine and Sherlock's child, but-_

_Well, shut up then. The child will be loved. He (or she) will be cared for. You won't be a terrible mother, because you're a fighter. Every child wants to be loved, and anything else is an added bonus… You're you, Joan. And I'm proud. _

The voice had taken on the sweetest one she knew- Sherlock's. She fought the tears back- it was only her internal voice, her own words, but still… it gave her comfort, and with it, a tiny bit of strength… the voice was right. She was a fighter. For her, Mycroft and a possibly unborn child's sake, she banished the fear that had been curdling and churning for the past few minutes to the back of her mind.

'How did this happen?'

'Sorry?' Joan snapped out of her daze and looked at the tired man across from her.

'You acted surprised… surely the child wasn't planned?'

'Oh, right! Well, I was on the pill, so no. I thought the damn things worked, but-' Her forehead smoothed suddenly._ Of course…._

'Joan?'

Oh… _Stupid!_ The pill had a failure rate; how much she wasn't sure. It had been ages since she had done this- when she was in med school, if she remembered correctly. Dammit, what was the failure rate? She wracked her brains, then realised.

She crossed the room in long strides and started rummaging around in her bedside draw. Chewing gum, her gun and bits of paper were carelessly tossed aside. Within seconds she had found the empty packet…

'It has a 0.2% failure rate… not impossible, but highly improbable. ' She started the empty pill packet, and then at her stomach. 'Highly improbable….'

Mycroft opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment the door rang. Both heads snapped up. Before Joan could react, Mycroft was already at the door, taking a plastic bag (or Joan assumed, judging by the rustling) and bounding back up the stairs in the same second.

'Who was that?' Joan asked curiously as Mycroft handed the bag to Joan. 'I didn't expect anyone.'

'It was Aleena,' Mycroft explained. 'She went to the shop for me.'

Joan opened the bag and found many brand of pregnancy tests…. First response, clear blue, ….

'Well, we can't be too careful.'

Now it was Joan's time for an ominous answer. She looked up at Mycroft and, despite the situation, grinned.

'I see.'


	6. Epiphany

The seven pregnancy tests all read positive. Pregnant, pink line, blue dot…

Joan felt her heat freeze, but her breathing level escalate. She had been pregnant for nearly two months and she hadn't realised.

Joanne was aware that Mycroft was watching her reactions, silently analysing and judging her next reaction.

But that was the least of her problems… the top of her ever growing list was_ Joan was pregnant to a dead man!_

'Oh, Jesus…' Joan's eyes grew wide as she searched Mycroft's face for reassurance. 'This isn't…. it can't happen! It can't! I'm now the tragic heroine, the one left behind after her lover dies in unfortunate circumstances- this only happens in movies or really crap books-!'

'Are you going to keep it?'

This question left Joan stunned. Her mouth opened and moved, but no sound came out.

She had already considered the options- abortion, adoption or keeping.

Abortion- she knew the complications. What happened if she made the wrong action, but had to carry through with it because she'd already taken one of the two damn pills she knew would be administered? How would she feel? Incredibly guilty was top of her list- then sadness. The thought of it made her want to cry right there and then. She furiously crossed it off of her list.

Next up- adoption. Her eyes widened (and she was sure it wasn't just her mental picture of herself). She imagined a mini Sherlockette wreaking havoc on a foster family, and doing something like setting fire to the curtains by the age of three. Then there was the heart breaking option of closed or open adoption- if she had a closed one, then she lost the opportunity to speak with one of the closest things she had to Sherlock left. However, on the other hand, having something that close to Sherlock- as she pictured her child with his hair, his cheekbones, his mouth, his _everything_- would be equally heart breaking… she crossed that off her list.

Now there was only one thing left to say. Or rather, a massive rant left to have.

'_Shit, Shit,_ _**Shit**_, you Motherfucking bastard! Sherlock Holmes, I could_** kill**_ you right now!' she gripped her hair, gave a frustrated growl, and started to pace. She wasn't sure who she was talking to- maybe an omnipresent entity, Mycroft or even herself? She couldn't care less.

'You Sherlock, are the most annoying sod to ever walk the goddamned earth! This is your child too! I curse you to the depths of hell! It's yours, and when I think of it makes the solider in me's chest go all soft and weird and my heart flutters, and I think it's because he is yours! You had that effect on me when you were alive, and now you're dead and your child has that silly bloody affect to!' She stopped, ashamed of what she just said. Instead she muttered, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear if he was listening. 'I expect you to be watching over him, you know!'

Joan was looking up at the ceiling, but in her peripheral vision she saw Mycroft frowned and cocked his head to the side. She followed his gaze- her left hand was protectively cupping her stomach.

She broke her gaze away from her stomach and locked eyes with Mycroft, who was smiling.

'So am I right to assume that you're keeping it?'

'He-' Joan corrected. 'Yeah. I am- he's the only piece of Sherlock's I have left.'

Mycroft's grin grew wider. 'What makes you think it's a he?'

Now it was time for Joanne to grin. She pondered this is for a moment before answering.

'Maternal instinct.'

….

Eight days after finding out (making her nearly an incredible 10 weeks), Mycroft had texted to say that Sherlock had left everything to her. This surprised Joan- she honestly hadn't even given a thought about Sherlocks will, because it was just another painful reminder that she had lost Sherlock forever. For the first time in about a week, Joan cried.

After ten minutes, she pulled herself together. Breathed, grabbed a pad, and she wrote out a list.

_**Must get:**_

_Bigger bras_

_Milk/bread_

_Cereal _

_Bigger jumpers/vests_

_Vitamins_

_Pickled onions_

_Ham_

Her pen hovered over the pad. She had been having cravings, which consulting her old med school book, was normal in this stage of pregnancy. Just over two months…ten weeks… she still couldn't believe it.

Once again, Joan found her hand rubbing her stomach again. Before, she had always scoffed at people who did this- it seemed like such a meaningless, melodramatic action. The baby probably couldn't feel at this point, but it gave her a sense of comfort. Joan sighed and squirmed happily in her chair, being careful not to knock over her breakfast.

She felt like she was in a dream. Joan had been making an effort to keep her stress levels down, to eat healthily and so on. She hadn't realised how little she had been eating- littler than six hundred calories a day- but now she was trying to eat six small meals. Three big ones, she had found out the day after, were just too much.

Obviously, the pain of Sherlock's death was still there; If it wasn't for her child, she was sure she would still be crying, not eating and pushing everyone away.

Though, saying that, it didn't take much- a long coat; high cheekbones; unruly, curly hair, little things like that, were enough to make tears smart her eyes and threaten to overspill.

But she was getting better.

The first few weeks- the depression, the broken mirror and loathing- were being slowly shunted away. They were still there- Joan had a feeling that they would never leave- but in it's place, happiness, hope and positive things were slowly trickling into the gap. For one of the first times since his death, she felt… _alive_.

Joan smiled at the thought. It was an epiphany.

…

After going shopping, she had a shower and put on one of the jumpers. She had had a bit of a spend; not much, but enough to get her jeans, vest tops and fluffy jumpers to last her through her pregnancy.

Joan dried her hair, and put on some comfy jeans and a black turtleneck.

Admiring her stomach in the mended mirror, she realised how big it was. How could she've not noticed it before? It was about the size of a small football, protruding from her hips.

Her newly charged phone buzzed from the living room. It made her jump in surprise, but she quickly padded to the living room, expecting it to be one of Mycroft's daily texts. However, it was Greg Lestrade. Joan flicked it open curiously.

_Hi J, do u want to come down pub in Fleet st for lunch at 12? Molly mite b there G x _

Joan quickly pressed reply, before typing out a text

_Thanks, sounds gd. Meet u outside pub at 12. JW x_

Joan glanced at the clock; she still had another hour and a half.

For now, she would just sit in her favourite chair, enjoying the peace and quiet.

The room she had shared with Sherlock hadn't changed much. There was still two chairs, a sofa, and a bull with earphones trailing up to its head….

When she brought herself to start clearing up after Sherlock's funeral, she had to admit she had been possessive of his things. The experiments had to go- they had started to grow grey fuzzy mould that Joan was sure carried some lethal toxin, and the toes and other body oddities in the fridge had started to smell.

However, all his notes for cases, observations and writing and been stacked and put away neatly on the little table in the corner. His violin had been placed on the side by the fireplace, and that was where it stayed (but Joan periodically took it down to clean and polish); Sherlock's notoriously creepy skull had been polished and placed facing the room; the knife Sherlock had once used to stab the wooden fireplace had been placed back in the gouge it caused.

As she had been sorting out his notes, and reading them with interest, she came across a photo that she didn't even know had been taken.

It was her and Sherlock's first Christmas together. Joan wasn't even sure who took the photo. It was her, in a holly jumper. She was grinning broadly, her hair extremely messy, cheeks rosy (almost like she had had one too many sherries) and eyes alight. And then there was Sherlock… with is eerie, unearthly beauty, curly black hair framing his cheekbones. Sherlock had turned his head to kiss Joan's cheek, and she was sure that has caused the grin on her face (in the photo and right at this very moment). The picture was enlarged, and put in a wooden frame. It sat proudly in the middle of the mantle place, next to the skull and knife.

Joan had tried her best to keep the flat looking like it was before Sherlock had… _jumped_, and she thought she was doing a pretty good job.

…

'Hey, Greg,' Joan grinned as she slid into the booth. 'You okay?'

Gregory smiled. 'You're cheerful today.'

Joan replied with a beam that, once again, made Greg's eyebrows fly up to somewhere near his hairline and cheeks colour.

'Molly's here?'

'Cancelled. Her new boyfriend's dumped her... again.'

'Again?'

'Oh, you haven't heard?' Greg smirked. 'Well, she got a boyfriend after the whole… Bart's thing-' he didn't want to upset Joan by mentioning her boyfriends suicide, but was slightly surprised when she continued to stare at him curiously and didn't start blubbering. 'And it was obvious she had had a crush on Sherlock for a while. She got with this right twat- Maxamillion, I think his name was- who treated her like dirt. They broke up a few weeks ago, but got back together; she went running back after a week or so, and now've broken up again.'

'Oh, poor Molly. I hope she's okay.'

Greg broke eye contact, and looked around the room before making slightly eye contact again. He leant forward across the table and fiddled with the salt shaker.

'So, how are you… coping?'

'Getting better.' Joanne smiled, her hand unconsciously cupping her football sized stomach. She didn't notice- it was a habit now- but Greg frowned and looked at her hand curiously, his head cocked to the side.

He was just about to speak when the American waitress came over, snapping her chewing gum loudly.

'Are you going to order or what?' she snapped, flicking her reddish curls over her shoulder.

'Yes, we will. I'll have the roast, please, and some water.'

Oh, good. Joan was finally eating _something-_ it was nice to know that she wasn't starving herself- eating even less than Sherlock had- any longer.

'Yeah, and I'll have the um, pie please. And a beer.'

The waitress jotted it down and sauntered off. _What a bitch,_ Greg found himself thinking.

His wandering gaze slowly made it back to Joan after looking around his surroundings. Greg found himself rather amused as he saw Joan sat there, her hands in the steeple positing. So… Sherlock-ish. He smiled.

'So, got any cases?'

Gregs mouth dropped open. Joan Watson would never fail to surprise him- she wanted to know about a case? A case the otherwise would've done with Sherlock? Wasn't that the most upsetting thing she could ask at the moment?

'Oh! Um, yeah, we're having a bit of trouble… a woman, murdered, but there's no finger prints, no clue, nothing that we can use for our advantage.' Greg ran a hand through his hair as the waitress deposited Gregs beer, the frothy head spilling over slightly.

Joan seemed satisfied with his answer. They sat in silence for a moment, before Joan spoke.

'You've been sad… and stressed recently. What's wrong?'

Greg blushed, the shell of his ears turning red, like crispy bits of bacon. He picked up and sipped his beer, debating whether to tell her or not. He sighed and shifted in his chair.

'It's… my wife. She is… leaving me.'

'Oh, Greg, I'm sorry.' She stopped rubbing her stomach with her left hand and used it to clasp Gregs hand. He smiled.

'You know, everyone used to say me and Eve were… made for each other, stuff like that. Really cliché stuff. But about five years after I met him, you came into Sherlock's life, and he was smitten.' He glanced at Joan to make sure he wasn't upsetting her. He wasn't, so he carried on. 'You made him a better person. Besides, you were like the right side of his brain that he seemed to be missing- you were the emotional, dreamy sort of person in contrast to Sherlock's cold, unfeeling exterior. I saw it work- next to you, me and my wife looked like nothing. Everyone said me and Eve were made for each other, but I used to think 'Yeah, but you obviously haven't met Holmes and Watson.''

Joan beamed. She still had fingers entwined in Gregs, and she was rubbing her stomach again. Greg frowned, and was about to his question before the waitress tottered over again and set their plates in front of them.

'Thanks,'

The waitress looked down her nose at them in reply.

Joan started to eat, but thinking back, Greg was suddenly baffled.

'How did you know? Y-you said I was… how?'

Joan gave him a wolfish grin as her blue eyes flickered up.

'I lived with Sherlock for nearly three years, and I was his girlfriend for a year and a half of them; you pick up things.'

He shot her a questioning gaze. Joan covered her mouth, chewed and swallowed slowly before answering.

'The frown lines and lines around your mouth are more pronounced than when I last saw you. The crowfeet aren't, though, so if you've been smiling it wasn't genuine. By the direction, I'd say you'd been turning your mouth down quite a lot- grimacing?'

Greg was stunned. He then rubbed his temples and closed his eyes- Joan giggled.

'Oh god- there's two of you!'

When he opened his eyes Joan was looking at him in what can only be described as horror, shock and… guilt? Lestrade frowned before realising what he thought he did wrong.

'Oh, God, I'm so sorry Joanne, I spoke without thin-'

'-How did you know? I didn't think it was that obvious!-'

Now Greg was really confused. He frowned and ran his fingers through his hair, his sentence dying off.

'What are you on about? What's obvious?' he asked Joan, genuinely confused.

'What are _you_ on about?' asked Joan, failing to meet his eyes. Lestrade looked for indicators- what kind of detective was he? He noticed she was rubbing her stomach, but what did that mean? He was sure she hadn't done it at the funeral….

If he looked carefully, he noticed that her jumper had started to become stre-e-e-tched over her breasts, and as for the material over her stomach… well, that was as taunt you could get without the material actually splitting. It had been hastily covered up by a hoodie.

A memory of his wife's pregnancy- before they lost it- flashed through his mind. Eve had stroked her stomach, been incredibly happy and he remembered her breasts and stomach had grown to be the size of a small football by seventeen weeks. His stomach dropped.

'You're pregnant?'

Joan blushed. This was going to take a lot of explaining.

'Yes.'

'It's Sherlocks?'

'Well, yes,' she said, slightly offended. Joan wasn't the type to sleep around, and Lestrade wasn't the first to ask. 'Who else's would it be?'

'I don't know. Y'know, 'cause Sherlock is, uhm, well-'

'Dead, yes.'

Lestrade cringed. He wasn't tactfully dealing with this new situation well. He tried to give her a 'please, do go on' look, without actually _saying_ it. Joan picked up on it and sighed.

'I became pregnant before, but I only realised it a week and a half or so ago. I was on the pill, but it failed.'

Lestrade sat back in his chair, trying to absorb the new information.

'So you've had a scan?'

Joan shook her head. 'I'm ten weeks- I'll book it for next week or the week after.'

Now he sat back and actually looked, he was surprised he didn't deduce it sooner. Lestrade rubbed his temples.

'Oh God- imagine. In twenty year's time, there's gonna be two of them. I_ really_ hope I'm retired by then.'

Joan burst out laughing.


	7. Oh dear, Molly

The midwife spread copious amounts of gel on her stomach. John gasped and wriggled under her touch- the gel was incredibly cold, like it had just come out of the fridge. Her midwife- Doctor Winter- smiled, her green eyes startling against her nut brown skin.

'Sorry.' The midwife said, before she looked around. 'The father is unavailable, I presume?'

'Oh….He's dead.'

Doctor Winter looked embarrassed, a hot flush creeping up her neck.

'Oh, I'm so sorry, I had no ide-'

'Don't worry about it.' Joan smiled. She tried to make the atmosphere less awkward as the midwife busied herself down the bottom of the bed, her cheeks still pink. The doctor cleared her throat.

'So, how far along are you?'

'Thirteen weeks.'

The midwife looked up in surprise, nearly dropping what she was holding.

'Really? You look much bigger. Is it just the one?'

'Uh, yes… I think so. This is my first scan, see.' Joan wriggled, trying to find a comfortable position- her back was _aching- _but failed to find one. 'And I can't feel him yet, so...'

'Him?'

'Mothers instinct,' explained Joanne. The midwife popped up, carrying a folder and smiled.

Joan's heart was pounding excitedly, her palms sweating as the tanned Doctor applied the scanner to her swollen stomach.

Doctor Winter moved it around, trying to find the foetus. The midwife smiled as she found it- a fast heartbeat filled the room and Joan found herself grinning.

Looking at the screen to her left, she saw the black and white figure that was growing inside her at this very moment. Joan could see a little body, the body of a boy; a big head, and a hand with tiny little nubs, and the face had started to become defined. There were tiny little movements as the child shifted, and Joan found herself tearing up- it looked like Sherlock was waving.

In her peripheral vision, she saw the midwife frown. Horror flooded her stomach.

'What's wrong?' Joan asked urgently, turning to her. She heard the child's heartbeat quicken in time with her own- wait… what?

Doctor Winter moved her scanner to the right side, and beamed at Joan as a second heartbeat filled the room. Joan's jaw unhinged as she saw a second, smaller foetus on the screen.

'Congratulations, Doctor Watson- you're having twins!'

* * *

Mycroft looked so shocked Joan could laugh.

He had been in shock for about thirty seconds now- his blue eyes popping, mouth agape, and the tea that had been traveling up to his lips was stuck in a limbo between the saucer and his mouth.

'Twins?' he spluttered as he came to himself. He sat straight in his chair and cleared his throat- a sign that he wanted her to go on. Joan beamed at him.

'Yeah- they think one is a boy, the other a girl, but they can't be sure until a few weeks more yet.'

'Why not?' Mycroft demanded. 'Surely they can see?'

'Obviously!' laughed Joan, rolling her eyes. 'But they can't be one hundred per cent sure yet.'

Joan still couldn't stop smiling. She was stroking her stomach again as Mycroft digested this new information- it was so strange to see him so lost. He wasn't stupid in this area per se, but whatever he knew about pregnancy he must've deleted. It was nice to know that he didn't know everything, despite the rumours.

Joan laughed at a thought that popped into her head. It was laughter, and honestly it was music to Mycroft's ears. Joanne the woman, who a couple of weeks ago wasn't eating, drinking and harming herself, was laughing… Mycroft was proud of her. Just don't tell Joan that- we don't want her to grow a big head, do we?

'What?'

'Private joke!' laughed Joan, wiping a tear from her eye. Mycroft's confused face only fuelled her laughter even more, until she was laughing so hard she could hardly breathe and her sides were hurting.

'Care to elaborate?'

'Well,' Joan gasped, trying to regain her breath, 'what will my children call you?'

There was a short pause.

'Sorry, I don't see….'

'Well, if you were having kids, then they would've called Sherlock 'Uncle Sherly', I'm sure.' Joan could feel the giggles starting to bubble again. 'So what will my kids call you? Uncle Mycroft? Uncle Mike? MyMy?'

Mycroft chuckled.

'Funny, I'm sure it'll be the latter, with a little persuasion from you-' Joan giggled again, 'But, dear Lord, just don't let the Russian government hear that; they'll never let me live it down.'

* * *

A few days later, Molly popped round.

She looked kind of bad, Joanne admitted privately. Her hair was messy, her cheeks had lost that slightly pink flush, and she had dark circles under her eyes. Nonetheless, Molly smiled and embraced Joan as she opened the door to 221B.

Sitting her down, Joan started to become unnerved; Molly's big brown eyes were darting about the room, as if she expected something bad to jump out at her any moment. She tried to cover it up with a smile, but as said previously, Joanne had lived with Sherlock for nearly three years, and was his girlfriend for a year and a half of them. Joan didn't say anything as she busied herself with tea making.

Coming back with a cup of tea, Joan gently touched her shoulder- and immediately knew something was up. Molly jumped violently, nearly knocking over the cup in Joan's hands.

'Sorry, sorry!' Molly cried, as Joan recoiled, hand already protecting her swollen and sore stomach. Joan set the cup down, sat down herself and entwined their fingers. She tried to lock eyes with the woman opposite, but she seemed determined to avoid her blue gaze.

'You okay?'

Molly shook her head, her lip twitching. She blinked furiously, breathing in and out of her mouth as she tried to calm down. She failed, and tears started to cascade down her face.

Without another thought, Joan wrapped her arms tenderly around Molly. The woman gave a sob into her shoulder.

'I'm sorry, really, it's just-' her voice cracked. 'What with everything going on, I-I feel that I just can't cope-' she sniffed, a shuddery breath rocking through her frame.

'It's fine. I felt like that to, when Sherlock…_ jumped_. But it will get better.'

Molly became still underneath Joans fingers- she pulled away, and Molly was looking more terrified than Joan had ever seen her. Joan frowned.

'Do you want to talk about it?' Joan offered, as Molly looked and tried (but failed) to pull her hands away.

'No, no, I can't, I'm not allowed!'

'Not allowed?'

Molly had realised she said something wrong. She bit her lip, her mind working as fast as Sherlock's would when he was on a case.

'I-it's Max…' she lied, hoping that the concerned face across from her would believe her. 'We've not been getting… on?'

Joanne didn't notice that the end of Molly's sentence was in the form of a question. She searched her face, trying to find clues- no bruises, as far as she could see. Verbal abuse? She wasn't sure. What had Max done to hurt Molly so?

'What has he done to you?' Molly looked away, hoping the kind doctor wouldn't notice she was lying. She felt horrible, especially since the face across from her looked so… concerned. 'Has he hit you? Verbally abused you?' Molly looked down as she could feel the growing horror radiating from Joanne. 'Molly, did Max force himself on you?'

Molly suddenly stood up, her face burning. She hadn't lied in a long time, but pulling Joan along on a lie that also included her ex-boyfriend… that wasn't Molly. She hated it, she wanted to tell Joanne the truth. She wanted to scream it from the rooftops, just to get rid of this guilt that was constantly crushing her. She had had dreams of telling Joan...

_Joanne... Sherlock's alive!_

Instead she said, rather formally: 'No, he didn't. Really, Joanne, he didn't; I need to go. There is a body in the morgue that needs a post mortem-'

With that, Molly left, leaving a very confused Joan sat back in 221B.

* * *

She burst through her door, and run up the stairs to her bedroom. She flung herself on it, and cried and cried for hours. When she eventually lifted her head, her bright bedroom and kitten posters all tilted sideways and her nose was so stuffed up that she couldn't breathe. Molly lifted a hand to her face to find that her mascara had smudged and stained her pillow.

Molly Hooper lethargically slid off the bed and onto her knees. Molly is not really the religious type. She was raised in a Christian family, yes, but they were never very strict in their ways...but she clasped her hands in front of her and screwed her eyes shut, a tear still snaking it's way out of her eye.

'Please, God,' she sobbed. 'Sherlock isn't dead, his lover is pregnant with his child- I looked at the reports. Twins- how is that fair? She doesn't deserve it… I'm such a terrible person, God, help me please. Please? Don't let me live like this; it's a lie. It's a sin. Save me from it-I don't like it, I hate it, I hate it, I _hate _it! Please!'

On queue, her phone buzzed. She felt a sinking horror as she opened it.

_Thank you for the new information. SH_

* * *

'Mycroft!' Sherlock screamed moments later into his brothers answer phone. _'Answer me **right now**, _you _twat!_ Joan is pregnant! Why didn't you fucking _tell_ me? When I get my hands on you, I **_SWEAR_** on my life I will kill you so hard that you will die **_TWICE_**!'

Mycroft was watching his furious brother on his mobile screen- it was useful to have it hooked into his CCTV cameras. Obviously, Sherlock had bugged Molly's flat for whatever reason- but oh dear Lord he knew. But he was in Russia, and had been for the past few weeks… he wouldn't come back to soon, he still had to disable Moriarty's web.

_'The spider may be dead but the web still remains'_- Sherlock wouldn't be home for months yet. He had no choice. He couldn't compromise Joanne's safety- he loved her too much. But on the other hand, he would give anything to be by his lovers side… he was doubting both options.

The only thing he didn't doubt that, when Sherlock got his hands on him, Mycroft would die… _twice_.

* * *

_I admit- I'm a bit of a review whore... how about this? The more reviews, the faster the next chapter is up and the better it'll be... because I can be** very** mean where Joan is concerned. I love cliffies, and I do have tonnes of Homework... so, if you want the next chapter, review please! S x_


	8. Fire and Ice

Mycroft was stepping slowly up the stairs to Sherlock's apartment. It had been four weeks since… the Molly incident, and he had no idea how the eccentric Sherlock would react.

As he stepped closer, he heard his brother playing violin- it helped him think, and, in this case, calm his murderous thoughts that buzzed around in that genius brain of his. If Mycroft listened carefully, he recognised it to be his brothers favourite tune.

Oh, the irony- with an intellect so massive you would expect something like Bach or a classic to be his favourite... but it was the Professor Layton Theme. His brother never failed to surprise him, he thought as he smiled to himself and opened the door.

The violin immediately stopped and the atmosphere was so thick that you couldn't cut it with a chainsaw. Mycroft quickly put down the envelope before facing his brother.

'Mycroft,' Sherlock snarled. He pointed his bow at his brother and then down at the seat near him (but Mycroft noticed it was out of kicking, biting and hitting distance). 'Sit down, _please_.'

Mycroft pursed his lips and gingerly sat down in his chair.

'How's the diet? Doesn't look like it's going to well… how long ago was it since I last saw you?'

Mycroft didn't dare smile. His brother was looking at him with such anger that he wanted to shrink back slightly. Sherlock's grey eyes were narrowed, his body taunt (probably to stop himself flying across the room and throttling Mycroft) and overall, Sherlock looked like he wanted nothing more than to torture Mycroft slowly and painfully. When Mycroft held up his hands, Sherlock growled.

'Look, I know you're probably upset, and hurt, bu-'

Sherlock's lip curled and he pointed his bow at Mycroft.

'That doesn't even cover how I feel, Mycroft! My lover is pregnant, and you didn't even bother to tell me-!'

'-But it would distract you from the work!-' Mycroft cried.

Sherlock's sentence died and he instead got up and grabbed his brother by the lapels, forcing him to stand. They were stood nose to nose, and Sherlock's rage was radiating off of him in waves.

'Oh, yes? The work doesn't mean anything, Mycroft!' he screamed, shaking his brother. 'The work means nothing, not next to this! If I hadn't found out because Molly Hooper couldn't keep her mouth shut and actually believes in an omnipresent entity, when would I have? Hmm?'

He looked at his brother who was currently very interested in the ground. This fuelled his anger further, and he was shaking his more and more violently brother in an effort to get answers.

'I wouldn't! You and I both know! Just because you've never felt what I've felt for anyone, doesn't mean that you can go and keep secrets from me! Especially like this!'

Sherlock looked at his brother- he seemed to be getting through to him. He twiddled with his umbrella nervously, his blue eyes averted and his mouth pressed into a thin line.

'You know what, Mycroft? I love Joan, more than anything in the world. I have missed her so, _so _much and I want nothing more than for her to hold me and forgive me. I want our unborn child to have a happy life, but I didn't even know of its existence up until four weeks ago!'

Mycroft cleared his throat and straightened his back. He didn't bother to fight his brothers grip, so he tried to do the most human thing he could.

'Sherlock, I'm sorry.'

The words hung in the air ominously. Sherlock's grip loosened, and his mouth dropped. However, the surprise didn't mask the anger- he still wanted to throttle Mycroft within an inch of his life, believe me.

'I know you probably hate me. But Joanne is fine, she is happy to find out she still has a piece of you _left_. You're going to be a damn good father Sherlock, whether you're there or not… and I'm incredibly sorry, but now you can't go and see Joanne. You can't- Moran is still here in Russia, and while he is around, you cannot go back to England. You'd be putting everyone in danger again!'

Sherlock looked at his brother through suddenly tired eyes. He sat back down heavily, and rubbed his face. Mycroft knew it was to stop him seeing Sherlock cry, but he didn't say anything; he wanted Sherlock to break the silence.

After a pause, Sherlock's muffled voice sounded.

'How is my child?'

Mycroft thought it would be safe enough to put a hand around his brother's shoulders. He was glad that Sherlock didn't shake him off.

'Children,' he mended softly.

Sherlock's feline eyes snapped up in disbelief. Mycroft smiled at the look of curiosity and wonder on his face. Then he remembered, and picked up the envelope that he'd brought with him to Russia.

'What?'

'Joanne is pregnant with twins, Sherlock.' Said Mycroft quickly. He gave it to Sherlock, who opened the envelope and shook out the content.

It was the ultrasound scan pictures.

A tear sprung to Sherlock's eye and down his cheek as he traced the black and white photo gently with his long, pale finger. He didn't bother to wipe it away, but as soon as he realised he grinned... but he was still crying.

'What are their genders?'

'One boy and girl, they think. It's going to be a few weeks before they can know for sure.'

Sherlock allowed another tear to fall out of his eye, and cast his thoughts back to Joanne back home.

He looked up at his brother, who had resumed him poker face.

'I will be home for my children,' he vowed, looking at Mycroft. He then looked down at the photos and started to trace around them again. 'I promise.'

…..

Mycroft hadn't seen Sherlock cry since they were tiny.

He felt slightly guilty, but it had to be done. Otherwise, many people would be in serious danger. Moran, for example… well, he would follow and kill Sherlock, Joanne and their unborn children without hesitation. Moran might even enjoy it.

However, Mycroft couldn't… wait, scratch that, _wouldn't _let that happen.

Mycroft was so lost in thought that he almost missed his turning.

'Crap!' he snapped, before he tapped the driver, 'Excuse me, повернуть направо, пожалуйста!'

…..

Sebastian Moran was stood on the roof on the buildings opposite 221B.

His hair had been dyed a dark brown from its ash blonde, he wore muddy brown coloured contacts and glasses. He had grown his hair long, and it kept flopping in his eyes. He hated it.

Moran had also had the liberty to have had his finger prints burned off, and a nose job from a surgeon that owed him a favour- Doctor Winters, her name was. Naturally, he had had Doctor Winters killed- when he was here, in England, his name wasn't Sebastian Moran. He couldn't have had a blabber mouth doctor spoiling his plans.

He wasn't Sebastian Moran anymore, not here- he was Andre Neveu.

He carefully aimed the small light gun, which he had fitted with a laser to give him more accuracy; this one, a Britsh Army Browning L91A , was better than what he usually used. It was a small handgun, light weight- not like the massive monsters he usually carried, the ones that usually needed a stand and five inch bullets simply to be used.

How he wanted to pull the trigger, how he wanted to see the ex-army doctor writhe and scream as he kept her alive long enough to suffer. While he pondered this, the wind whipping her hair, he could easily get hold of Mycroft or Sherlock's numbers- he wouldn't want them to miss out on the hugely entertaining show. How would the two machines- one of them a self-proclaimed Sociopath- react? The very thought made him want to jump up and down in glee... how, if a few mere months, four if he wasn't mistaken, he would put this in action. He could experiment… finally.

Sebastian had been practising his technique on pregnant pigs, for fun… and he had deadly accuracy. More area, the more likely the bullet was to hit….

However, he couldn't fire now, not yet. This was a blind spot in Sherlock's brothers CCTV. They couldn't see him. But he could sure see them.

Sebastian wanted to wait, until the female doctor across from him was eight, maybe nine months at the most. Joanne Watson would have more connection with her children then, and it would make it hurt a _lot _more.

…

Joan was in sat back in her chair in 221B again. She had agreed invited Lestrade round- she hadn't seen him in many weeks- quite a long period of time- and Joan wanted to know how he was getting on.

The doorbell rang, and Joan heaved herself up. The bump, now seventeen weeks (she just had her second scan) was really starting to get in her way now! Joan opened the door before Mrs Hudson was disturbed.

'Hiya,' she smiled at Greg as she opened the door. Her smile dropped however, when she saw how bad Greg looked. Gregory had bags under his eyes, his hair had gone slightly more grey since the last time and his normally flushed skin was pale and drawn. His clothes were ironed, however, and he looked presentable.

'Jesu-' she cleared her throat. 'You okay?'

Lestrade nodded, before he smiled. Joanne invited him inside, sat him down and gave him a mug of tea.

'Getting big!' he said with a tired voice, but trying to cover it up with a smile. It wasn't very convincing to Joan.

'Mmm, twins-' she loved how Gregs mouth dropped to his chest, before carrying on. 'But how are you? Greg, no offence, but you look terrible!'

He sighed, before rubbing his face.

'Evie's leaving me… for good. She's taken the kids too. I was married to my work, loved it too much- but I never knew how much it would hurt...' he rubbed his face again and sighed- Joan had never felt more sorry for anyone in her life. 'If I'm honest, I feel like I'm dying.'

'Are you sure she is leaving? For good?'

Greg chuckled.

'The thin cracks were showing for quite a long time. Now it's blown wide open; unfortunately I've damaged our marriage beyond repair.' Greg groaned. 'It's all my fault! She was my first love, first wife-'

Joan didn't really know what to do. The man needed her help, but she was powerless. Instead, she gently grasped his shoulder.

The inspector looked up in surprise, his sentence cutting off, and found a fire in Joan's eyes that he had never seen before. There was simply sheer determination, grit and a power like quality in those sapphire blue eyes, and he found it frightening but at the same time rather amazing; it was as rare as fire and ice co-existing together. He hummed in his internal voice- this was Solider Watson. Interesting.

'You're a great man, Greg. I haven't ever been divorced, but I can speak from experience. When Sherlock jumped, a piece of me died with him. I'll never get it back- it's his, that part of me. It was, and always will be. Don't get me wrong, there are good days, but at first, you do think you're physically dying too… but it's all right in the end. You will pull through it, Greg… Trust me.'

Gregory smiled, and, for the first time in forever, it was genuine.

'Thanks.'

'You just have to find a reason.'

'A reason?'

Joan smiled.

'Like my twins.'


	9. The tale of the fallen angel

Mycroft was round again. He was sat, as still as stone, in the left armchair; his usual place. Joan looked at him curiously as she walked in from the kitchen.

'You were hit by a married man.'

'Hmm?' Mycroft was suddenly snapped out of his thoughts. He brushed his warm fingers over the dark purple bruise underneath his eye, before chuckling softly. 'Oh, yes. I was.'

Joan set the tea down in front of him, before sitting down herself.

'And he was the same height as you too. Hit you quite hard, looking at your eye.' Mycroft raised an eyebrow .'Problems with Russia?'

It took Mycroft a moment to work out what she had said, what Joan actually meant. He nearly sighed with relief when he realised she meant the Russian Government.

'Oh, yes. A few problems in Russia, you could say. Quite a few…' he let the sentence trail off, before gathering himself- it would raise questions if Mycroft was being cryptic. He cleared his throat. 'Yes. A couple of problems. So, how did you deduct it?'

Joan grinned before looking around the flat thoughtfully. Her eyes trailed down anything that had a large outline, before meeting Mycroft's blue eyes, alight with questions unanswered.

'Hm. Well, you can tell that he punched you; the cut just underneath has been inflicted by a ring on his finger. Ring finger to be precise, so he was obviously married. You can tell it was a he because of the size of the bruise- there is more chance of it being a mans, because of the sheer size. Probably not a women, but not impossible… you can get women with larger hands. But I'll put my bets on the bloke because of the force that must've been inflicted.'

'Correct.' Mycroft smiled as Joan blushed. 'You're becoming a female Sherlock!'

_Correct,_ thought Mycroft with some surprise. He'd have to be a bit more careful when he was around Joan from now on.

He admitted he probably had deserved the smack. He shouldn't have taunted (well, it wasn't really taunting, more of a slightly-less-than-friendly comment)a bored, angry Sherlock- he had forgotten the sheer force that could lie in those sinewy arms. The arm that was connected to the hand, which still had the ring on it.

Sherlock still cared.

And, looking at Joanne's clean wedding band, she did too.

Mycroft wrenched himself out of his thoughts again, and watched the small woman across from him sip her tea.

'Are you going to start dating again?' Mycroft suddenly blurted. They both sat back in their chairs, shocked. He had no idea that question was even in his mind before it had flown from his lips. Mycroft blushed a delicate pink. 'I-I just thought, y'know, you might, um, get lonely…'

He wasn't handling this well. Joanne smiled at the rare sight of seeing Mycroft flustered.

'No. I... I don't think I am. I've told you, I have only loved Sherlock. It won't be the same. It wouldn't be fair. You have no idea how much I want the last thing I said to him to be 'I love you'. Because, Mycroft, I do- so much it hurts. I couldn't begin to picture life without him, he was mine... obviously then Bart's happened; I am incredibly hurt and angry still, but I love him. I will, until the day I die.'

Mycroft sat there, a question burning on his tongue.

'So you don't think he was a fraud?'

Joannes lip curled and she shook her head.

'I don't care what he told me. He was the bravest, and cleverest man I've ever met.'

Mycroft was slightly dumbstruck.

Sherlock really had found 'the one', if you'll forgive his phrasing. The one person that could put up with him, and even after all that had gone on, all the pain… she still loved him. Still. The thought of someone doing that to him… well, lets say within the first few hours of him finding out it was an elaborate hoax they wouldn't be breathing.

It was kind of… touching. Mycroft felt a warmness in his chest, and he didn't think it was to do with the tea.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, slowly draining their mugs. Mycroft's eyes fell on the photo on the mantle place (the Christmas one), the newly polished skull and violin and the knife. It was nice of Joan to still keep those things pristine.

'What are you calling the children? Or haven't you even thought of it yet?'

Joanne stroked her tummy thoughtfully, feeling the extra weight, the materials smooth surface, covering a large hardness roughly the size of a softball.

'Hmm…. Yes. I have. The girl- oh, yeah, did I tell you? It _is _a girl and a boy- I was thinking something… unusual. She is Sherlock's daughter, after all!'

Mycroft nodded in agreement.

'Do you have any ideas?' Joanne asked him hopefully.

'What about Joan or Joanne? Sherlock loved that name.'

'Nah, I don't- it's horribly plain and ugly. No. Also, it might cause some confusion. Sorry, but Joan or Joanne's out. Okay… was Sherlock close to a particular member of the family?'

Mycroft sat back in his chair, twirling his umbrella round and round, his brow furrowed in thought.

'We went to the Caribbean when he was about 14 and I was 21. He got particularly close to a female there, her name was Zaphira. No romantic attachment,' he reassured Joan as she raised her eyebrows. 'But she understood him better than the rest of us out together. She called him by a pet name which made all of our stomachs churn, but Sherlock was delighted to get the attention.'

'Oh? What did she call him?'

Mycroft fished a bit of paper and a pen out of his pocket and drew on it. Joan looked over in time to see his curly scrip finish.

Αγαθάγγελος

'Nice… but how do you pronounce it?'

Mycroft chuckled and put the pen away.

'It's Ancient Greek. The girl there, Zaphira, was Greek. She was mesmerised by Sherlock… she told me and him this story which involved a fallen Angel that aspired to be a God, but to be _good_instead of bad. She said it reminded her of him. Apparently he looked like the Angel- dark hair, full lips, pale skin with startling eyes and so on. The fallen angel who wanted to be good…And now we sort of realise how right she was.'

'How so?' quizzed Joan, draining the last of her tea.

'He is, really, an angel. He loves you, and protects you no end- like a guardian, if you wish. After what he's put himself through- with the cocaine, though you'll know about that-' he looked darkly, before his worry lines straightened out. 'becoming somewhat a criminal- he was about this close to toppling over the edge and joining with the likes of Moriarty.' Joan shuddered. 'But…then he met you. He wanted to be good for once. There were lights of reason before… but then you come, like a meteor, blinding him to everything else and outshining the previous points of reason. For the first time, he wanted to be good…Just like the story.'

'You still haven't told me how to pronounce the name though.'

Mycroft chuckled before writing the English translation just below his first curly script.

Agathangelos

'Good angel'

'Zaphira…' Joan pondered, rubbing her stomach. 'I like that name. It reminds me of white beaches and blue sea. I think that's it. Zaphira.'

'For the girl?'

'Obviously,' she said, giving Mycroft her best Sherlock impression and then smiling. 'I like that name. And I've a few relatives too, so I think I've got the name of your future niece sorted.'

Mycroft genuinely smiled. He sat forward, his fingers steepled under his chin.

'Care to share?'

'Zaphira Alexis Gracie Holmes.'

Mycroft gave a nod of approval.

'Sounds lovely. And the boy?'

Joan frowned at Mycroft, and he wondered if he had done something wrong. He sat up in his chair, trying to deduce what he had done to make Joan frown.

'I thought you'd know what I'd call him, what with your massive intellect!'

Mycroft relaxed- her voice was teasing, calm; she wasn't angry with him at all.

'No.' he said, genuinely puzzled. 'Please go on.'

'Sherlock. My boy's name is Sherlock... Sherlock Michael Agathangelos Holmes.'

Mycroft's heart melted- he really hoped his brother was spying in through one of the corner cameras.

'It sounds perfect.'


	10. Cracking with Perfection

Sherlock was sat, his arms curled around his knees, his breath foggy coming out of his mouth, curling like smoke.

His legs were wet, where he'd been curled up crying.

What amazed him was that, even after four months of his 'death' Joan still slept with the coat; he imagined that the smell of him would've faded by now… in a way, a bit like him.

He wouldn't one day fade from her mind _entirely_. He doubted that would ever happen- but Sherlock feared that he would start to fade from Joans mind.

She would no longer think or speak to him out loud everyday. Eventually, he worried that a thought would be once a week… then once a month…. Once every six months…. Once every year on their anniversary…. Then, to his stifled horror, finally not at all.

That thought terrified him.

….

It was eleven at night in Russia.

Sherlock couldn't find Moran, as hard as he might. He'd used all the tricks in the book to try and find out where he was.

Only one problem- Russia is a very big place. He couldn't search every square inch- was Mycroft sure that he was here?

Sherlock glanced over at the case file. He flicked open the blue folder, and stared back at those sharp blue eyes. Pale skin, and ash blond hair, shaved short. Sebastian Moran. Sherlock re-read the lines that he had probably read a thousand times already… _trained, deadly, will shoot on sight._

Sherlock had given up everything to be here. He couldn't solve the puzzle, the case… his brain felt like it had stopped working.

Sherlock threw the folder at the wall and held his head in his hands.

….

Sherlock was curled up on the leather armchair again, in the exact same position as he had been for many nights now.

His hair was tangled. He hadn't had a shower in three days now. His normally bright eyes were dull and tried, he had lost even more weight (putting him now a stone underweight- Mycroft would have to do something about that) and his skin was extremely pale and drawn.

A normal person would've assumed he had started using again.

He hadn't obviously. Instead, he was watching the smallish screen in front of him. The camera was placed in the corner of Baker streets front room- right now Mycroft was round, chatting to Joan.

'_You've been hit by a married man.'_

Sherlock's face formed a smile. It felt slightly strange, alien, as the little used muscles in his face worked to reach his commands.

'_Correct.'_ Sherlock could see Mycroft was dumbfounded. He realised why- she had gotten the completely wrong reason (there had been trouble with the Russian government) but it didn't take much to deduce some more. Joan saw, observed a little, but not nearly enough.

Joan didn't see the informality of Mycroft clothes- he didn't have a tie pin or cufflinks. He always wore those when meeting officials- and he had just gotten back from Russia. In fact, Sherlock doubted whether he even brought any cuffs or tie pins with him.

His luggage was still in the car, judging by the way he kept glancing out of the window to where the great black beast of a Mercedes lurked.

There probably was still a bit of identification to do, but at the moment his brain was so clogged up and fuzzy that simply deducting took every ounce of energy out of him. Also, the camera was quite grainy, making the inhabitants of 221B seemingly jump about.

_'Are you going to start dating again?'_ Mycroft suddenly blurted. Sherlock sat back in his chair, as did Joan, shocked. He had no idea that question was even in Mycrofts mind before come out. Sherlock was furious, but he could understand why.

Still. He had earned himself another smack in the eye when Sherlock got his hands on him.

He could see Mycroft was blushing quite a bright shade of pink. _'I-I just thought, y'know, you might, um, get lonely…'_

It took Joan a few moments to gather her thoughts and put them into words. Sherlock sat in the chair, nose nearly pressing the screen. _Come on Joan_, he urged. _Why aren't you saying?_

_'No. I... I don't think I am. I've told you, I have only loved Sherlock. It won't be the same. It wouldn't be fair. You have no idea how much I want the last thing I said to him to be 'I love you'. Because, Mycroft, I do- so much it hurts. I couldn't begin to picture life without him, he was mine... obviously then Bart's happened; I am incredibly hurt and angry still, but I love him. I will, until the day I die.'_

Sherlock's heart broke. He sniffed, and placed a hand on the screen. This, to an outsider, may seem like a meaningless, melodramatic action… but it gave Sherlock comfort. He was, in a way, closer to Joan.

'I love you too…' he muttered, trying to bite back down a sob that threatened his composure. 'More than anything in the world. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.'

That sob that threatened his composure? Well, that was now freely wracking his frame as one after another and another started to pour out. Sherlock Holmes, the self proclaimed sociopath, was breaking.

He never knew it was such a bad idea to try and divorce yourself from feelings. Yes, he had cared for Joan, but he never really realised how great his love for her was until he was 'on' the roof. Until her heart broke… because his did at the same time.

_'So you don't think he was a fraud?'_

Joannes lip curled and she shook her head. A warm tear rolled down Sherlock cheek.

_'I don't care what he told me himself, or what the papers are saying. I knew him, Mycroft, and so did you. Sherlock Holmes wasn't a fraud- he was the bravest, and cleverest man I've ever met… He wasn't a fraud-'_ Joan repeated, a steely glint in her blue eyes._ 'I refuse to believe it.'_

Sherlock was amazed. Joan Watson still believed in him, even after what he had put her through. She still cared. Sherlock looked down at the now-slightly-loose-but-very-clean wedding band. He still cared and Joan still believed in him.

It was like he was falling in love all over again.

There was silence for a few minutes. Joan finished her tea, as did Mycroft. Sherlock was pointedly looking at Joans hand- almost unconsciously, she was rubbing her swollen stomach. It was huge- the material was stretching, incredibly taut, over her stomach. Her turtleneck looked like it would break with the pressure.

_'What are you calling the children? Or haven't you even thought of it yet?'_

Joanne stroked her tummy thoughtfully. Sherlock waited with bated breath… what would he call his children? He could picture them now… looking exactly like Joan. With subtle mixes of him- the girl he saw had Joans blond hair, curled tightly in corkscrew curls. He could see his lips and nose, but Joans piercing eye colour and stature. He could picture the boy being slightly smaller, with his dark hair and leanness…

'_I have.'_ Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts and looked at the screen. Joan was smiling sweetly at Mycroft. _'Hmm…. Yes. I have. The girl- oh, yeah, did I tell you? It is a girl and a boy- I was thinking something… unusual. She is Sherlock's daughter, after all!'_

Mycroft nodded in agreement. Sherlock found himself smiling.

_'Do you have any ideas?'_ Joanne asked him hopefully_. 'All the names I pick don't really_fit.'

_'What about Joan or Joanne? Sherlock loved that name.'_ Sherlocks heart summersaulted in his chest.

_'Nah, I don't- it's horribly plain and ugly.'_ Sherlocks smile creased into a frown.

'It's not ugly, love.' He gently brushed the screen with his pale fingertips. 'It's beautiful, like you.'

'_-No. Also, it might cause some confusion. Sorry, but Joan or Joanne's out.' _Joan bit her lip._ 'Okay… was Sherlock close to a particular member of the family?'_

Mycroft sat back in his chair, twirling his umbrella round and round, his brow furrowed in thought. Sherlock nearly groaned when Mycrofts eyes lit up. The story. Oh God, No!

_'We went to the Caribbean when he was about 14 and I was 21. He got particularly close to a female there, her name was Zaphira. No romantic attachment,' he reassured Joan as she raised her eyebrows. 'But she understood him better than the rest of us out together. Better than his own family! She called him by a pet name which made all of our stomachs churn, but Sherlock was delighted to get the attention.'_

Sherlock could feel his face reddening as Mycroft smiled at the camera. Sherlock added another smack in the eye on his list for Mycrofts next visit.

_'Oh? What did she call him?'_

Mycroft fished a bit of paper and a pen out of his pocket and drew on it. Joan looked over as Mycroft continued to smile at the camera. He knew that Sherlock was watching- damn him!

He knew what the name would be…Αγαθάγγελος

_'Nice… but how do you pronounce it?'_

Mycroft and Sherlock both chuckled.

_'It's Ancient Greek. The girl there, Zaphira, was Greek. She had a huge crush on Sherlock, but he never returned the favour. I remembered, he told me and him this story which involved a fallen Angel that aspired to be a God, but to be good instead of bad. She said it reminded her of him. Apparently he looked like the Angel- dark hair, full lips and pale skin and so on. The fallen angel who wanted to be good…And now we sort of realise how right she was.'_

_'How so?'_ quizzed Joan. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. He knew what was coming, however, but was surprised at the first few sentences.

_'He is, really, an angel. He loves you, and protects__…. protected__ you__-'_ Mycroft hurriedly corrected himself. _'-__no end- like a guardian, if you wish. After what he's put himself through- with the cocaine, though you'll know about that-_' he looked darkly, before his worry lines straightened out. Sherlocks stomach dropped slightly at Joans pitiful expression. _'becoming somewhat a criminal- he was about this close to toppling over the edge and joining with the likes of Moriarty.'_ Joan and Sherlock shuddered. He remembered the dark days- the possession, stealing, once- but only once, murder- as Mycroft carried on. _'But…then he met you. He wanted to be good for once. There were lights of reason before… but then you come, like a meteor, blinding him to everything else and outshining the previous points of reason. For the first time, he wanted to be good…Just like the story.'_

That was the most poetic thing Mycroft had ever said. It touched him… it was right, Mycroft was right. Joan was his meteor of reason; his reason to get up in the morning and battle through the day. He visibly shuddered at the thought of Joan not saving him- where would he be now is she hadn't?

After a few minutes, Joan spoke.

_'You still haven't told me how to pronounce the name though.'_

Mycroft chuckled before writing the English translation just below his first curly script. Sherlock knew what he had wrote, and as Mycroft held it up, Sherlock's suspicions were confirmed.

Agathangelos

'Good angel'

_'Zaphira…' Joan pondered, rubbing her stomach. 'I like that name. It reminds me of white beaches and blue sea. I think that's it. Zaphira.'_

_'For the girl?'_

Something extraordinary then happened.

_'Obviously,'_ they both said, giving Mycroft their best be littleing look then smiling. Sherlock sat back in his chair, still amazed that after all this time they were in sync. _'I like that name. And I've a few relatives too, so I think I've got the nam__e of your future niece sorted.'_

Mycroft genuinely smiled. He sat forward.

_'Care to share?'_

_'Zaphira Alexis Gracie Holmes.'_

Sherlock smiled. It was… so beautifully perfect. Mycroft gave a curt nod of approval.

_'Sounds lovely.'_ Lovely? Lovely doesn't even cut it Mycroft! Mesmerising, beautiful, wonderful…even those words weren't enough. _'And the boy?'_

Joan frowned at Mycroft, and he wondered if he had done something wrong. He sat up in his chair, trying to deduce what he had done to make Joan frown. Sherlock was clueless at what Mycroft had done wrong too.

_'I thought you'd know what I'd call him, what with your massive intellect!'_

Mycroft relaxed- her voice was teasing, calm; she wasn't angry with him at all. Sherlock smiled, but frowned at the screen at the same time.

_'No.'_ he said, genuinely puzzled_. 'Please go on.'_ Sherlock felt himself nod in agreement.

'Come on Joan, please go on….'

_'Sherlock. My boy's name is Sherlock... Sherlock Michael Agathangelos Holmes.'_

_'It sounds perfect.'_

Sherlock's lip trembled and tears rolled down his cheek. He let out a broken sob. He looked at the photo of Joan by his bedside table.

'I-I agree, Joan. It's perfect… you're perfect.'

Sherlock rested his forehead on the screen, his breath fogging the glass.

'Joan… I love you.'


	11. Flowers for a ghost

_This chapter is dedicated to Trufflehead, with many thanks. She helped me with the name of Sherlock and Joan's kids!_

_Thanks to Iamdoctorwholocked- she messaged me the poem (called 'In Love Dances') and it just seemed to perfect not to put in here._

_Please rate and review- it means a lot! _

* * *

'He can't be here! He's _not!'_

Sherlock threw the file at his brother, who dodged out of the way; it hit the wall with a dull thud. Mycrofts lips were pressed in a straight line as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

'Sherlock, you're being childish. He must be here- it's not safe for Moran to be in England!'

Sherlock glared at his brother for a few moments, trying to make the taller man by the door shrink back slightly- his pale stare didn't do any good. Mycroft stood his ground.

Ugh. Mycroft was… right. He hated saying that sentence to his annoying brother, but Sherlock was being childish- his chest suddenly felt heavy and he rested his head in his hand. He rubbed hard at his eyes with the palms of his hands.

'I know, I know,' he groaned, a headache beginning to flicker like a candle flame in the centre of his head. 'Sorry, it's just… Joan. And Zaphira and Sherlock.'

Sherlock didn't look well at all- last time Mycroft recalled Sherlock looking like this was when he was in hospital four years ago.

He looked pale and he had massive circles under his eyes; his steely grey eyes showed a wise brain, but the tiredness that was present instead of the usual mirth made Mycroft shiver- it was like the lights were on but no-one was home.

His hair was a birds nest of raven black curls, and Mycroft was sure the shadows that nibbled at the planes of his face were deeper than usual, and the cheekbones looked so sharp that they could probably cut someone.

'I miss her, Mycroft.'

Mycroft nodded curtly, finding a good distraction in his umbrella. He wasn't very good at the emotional stuff, especially with his brother- Sherlock could tell when Mycroft was feeling awkward. Which, in turn, made Sherlock feel awkward, then Mycroft felt even more awkward that at first, and so it all went round in a massive circle. It was just a Holmes oddity, a trait.

Sherlock gave a shuddery sigh, which was slightly muffled by his large and pale hands- they were shaking. Mycroft frowned.

'Sherlock? What h-'

Sherlock looked sadly at his arms. The wrists, with their blue green haze just showing through pale skin were covered in little puncture marks. Needle marks.

Mycrofts stomach dropped, as did his mouth.

'You've been-?'

'Yes.' Sherlock snapped, looking away and out of the window to the blood red sunset outside. He was close enough for his fingertips to brush the cold glass, and so he did, his fingers dancing. 'I have.'

Mycroft had never been so disappointed in his life. He sat down opposite Sherlock and tried to get the younger Holmes to look at him.

'Why?'

Sherlock pondered this for a moment, twiddling his thumbs as his eyes dragged over the large flat, then to Mycroft, sat tense and waiting in his chair. After a few minutes (or it could've been seconds, Sherlock wasn't sure) Mycroft sighed and ran a finger through his red hair, making it stand on end. He was starting to loose patience.

'Sherlock, why? Answer me!'

'It makes me happy,' answered Sherlock honestly, trying to keep his expression neutral. 'If for a few minutes, or hours. It makes me forget about what a mess I'm in, what has happened. It makes me focused on the work, which is all I have now.'

Mycroft frowned and sighed unhappily. He shifted in his chair.

'How long?'

'As long as I've been here.' Sherlock answered, his lip trembling.

'When was the last?'

'This morning.'

Mycroft sat back in surprise. Another hand ran through his hair, tugging at the roots. He suddenly found himself fuming at the man sat opposite him.

'But what about Zaphira, Joan and _Sherlock?'_

'What about them?'

'What are they going to say? What is Joan going to think? It's going to break her heart, Sherlock! How could you be so selfish? Sherlock, don't look at me like that-'

'I'm not. Mycroft, Joan doesn't know that wasn't me in the coffin, she doesn't know I was the elderly man who sat with her afterwards. She doesn't know I was alive and breathing, while she was falling apart at my death. I doubt she even thinks of me now- I will fade, eventually. From her mind, I mean. I'll just be a ghost whom she leaves flowers for every Christmas.'

Mycrofts heart broke, but he was still fuming. He knew trying to talk to his brother would be a difficult task, but as he looked into those grey eyes he felt that he could.

'You know that's not true. We both do. I promised you, you will see her again.'

Sherlock smiled and shook his head sadly, a lone tear dripping onto the sofa.

'But I won't. I know I won't.'

'Why not?'

'Joan wouldn't forgive me for the pain. The pain I caused- if I was her, I wouldn't.'

Mycroft chuckled softly and glanced out of the window. 'I don't think she will, Sherlock.'

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 'Why's that?'

Mycroft looked at his brothers pale and hopeful face. 'Because we are Holmes's. We were trained 'Never forgive, never forget.' We turn out exactly normal, did we Sherlock? We are- well, we used to be- quite possibly the closest things to machines a human have ever gotten to. Joan isn't a machine, Sherlock, she's very much the opposite- give her time, and she'll forgive. However, I cannot promise she'll forget.'

Sherlock mulled this answer over in his head, and wiped away a few more tears, before glancing back at Mycroft.

'What if she doesn't?'

Mycroft hadn't seen Sherlock look so lost, so childlike, since he was about seven. He thought back to the tall and skinny little odd-ball, bursting with energy and waking up the whole house at four in the morning due to a companion of insomnia and an un-tuned violin. Up until Moriarty, Sherlock had remained the same. But how Mycroft longed for the old Sherlock to bounce back- whoever sat opposite wasn't his little brother.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Mycroft looking uncharacteristically anxious. Sherlock's lip trembled, but he bit down the sob that threatened to bubble from his lips.

'I'm sorry, My.'

Mycroft got up and crossed the room; before he realised what he was doing, his hand was on his brothers shoulder.

Sherlock looked up in surprise, then wound his long arms around his brothers waist, his head laid on his big brothers chest. Sherlock sniffed and remembered the last time Mycroft had held him like this.

He had been… eight or nine, at the most. If that. Some boys at the school, Tommy Jones and Nicolas James had been bullying him over something trivial. What it was, he cant exactly remember, but Sherlock was sure that it had something to do with a model of the solar system. Either way, Sherlock's work, one that he had spent painstaking hours on, ended up being ripped and stamped on.

Mycroft had comforted a crying and distressed Sherlock, hugging and soothing him when he started to panic about what his science teacher, Doctor Church, would say. She had warned it would be a marked project, which would make up quite a bit of his grades.

Mycroft and Sherlock spent the rest of the night (not even pausing to rest, which made a very impressed Sherlock as Mycroft worked through the early hours of the morning) working on a steel and glass model of the solar system. One that had the gas planets light up, and Sherlock was once again much in awe of his big brother. He had gotten top marks, and somehow Mycroft managed to get them expelled. To this day, Sherlock still didn't know how Mycroft had done it.

'I'm sorry, My,' Sherlock cried into Mycrofts shirt. 'I'm so, so, so sorry.'

* * *

_In love's dances, in love's dances,_

_One retreats and one advances._

_One grows warmer and one colder,_

_One more hesitant, one bolder._

_One gives what the other needed_

_Once, or will need, now unheeded._

_One is clenched, compact, in-growing,_

_While the other's melting, flowing._

_One is smiling and concealing,_

_While the other's asking, kneeling._

_One is arguing or sleeping,_

_While the other's weeping, weeping._

It was the first poem Sherlock had ever read to Joan; Joan was think about it, before her train of thought interrupted as the bump got in the way again.

She had been walking for about twenty minutes now, she needed the exercise. Joan knew exactly where she was going.

Crossing fleet street, and past the pub, she wandered down the narrow road of Crescent drive. Joan crossed the road.

Coming out of the graveyard, Joan saw quite a sight.

Sally Donovan, wearing a formal attire of a blazer and pencil skirt, and Anderson were by Sherlocks grave.

Joans mouth dropped open, before she realised. Sally was paying her last respects to Sherlock- she probably hadn't had time to come here before now- and Anderson was stood, quite a few meters away from the grave. It had been Sally's idea, then. She wanted to apologise.

'Sorry. For this- I never meant to make you jump. I didn't mean for it to spiral this out of control. We're having loads of problems now, at the yard, because we have all these killers loose around London. You'd have liked it, and solved it in about a minute.'

With that, Anderson nodded and Sally lightly brushed the smooth marble.

'Yeah. I just wanted to say, I'm sorry. Freak, you did a good job- you were a good man.'

Sally nodded, as if to reassure herself, and started to walk away. She saw Joan, and awkwardness started to form of Sally's face. She cutly nodded, biting her lip.

'Thank you,' Joan breathed, a small smile forming. 'That means a lot.'

Sally smiled, and brushed her dark corkscrew curls away with a tanned hand.

'Sorry. I didn't mean for this. If I knew this was going to happen, I-I-'

'It's fine,' soothed Joan, seeing the other woman start to crack. 'Its all fine. He'd have forgiven you. I do.'

Sally closed her eyes and breathed as Anderson arrived by her side. With a sigh, a smile and another nod, Sally went on her way, her dog trailing behind her.

Well, that was a bit unexpected.

Joan carried on walking through the high green grass, until she got to Sherlocks marble gravestone. There were many leafy trees, not very many headstones (half a dozen, at the most) but those that were there were quite far apart.

Joan had insisted on a dark marble gravestone, with a simple golden inscription.

_Sherlock Holmes_

_The song has ended, but the melody lingers on_

_And the question finds no answer,_

_And the tune misleads the dancer,_

_And the lost look finds no other,_

_And the lost hand finds no brother,_

_And the word is left unspoken,_

_Till the theme and thread are broken._

Joan hadn't been here since the funeral, and that was a few months ago- she still, rather naively, clung to the hope that Sherlock my still be alive. Seeing the gravestone, sitting beside it in the tall grass with only clarify the fact that Her Sherlock would be gone forever.

But Joan felt ready.

'Morning, Sherlock,' she said brightly, sitting herself down and placing the flowers just beside the headstones- she had chosen roses.

Red specifically- it was their anniversary. Joan cleared her throat.

'Remember when we met, Sherlock? In the hospital? The first thing you had ever said to me?' Joan smiled and she scooted closer to the gravestone. ''Thank you.' I was so surprised when you suddenly asked 'Afghanistan or Iraq', and then started vomiting my life story virtually verbatim. I was dead impressed- you _nearly_ got everything right.'

Her fingers lightly traced the golden words as she tried to put her thoughts into words.

'The four years I was with you Sherlock, you changed my life. I was broken, and so alone. You told me once that you weren't a hero… but there were times I didn't even think you were human, but, let me tell you this: you were the best man and most human… human being I've ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, that you were a fraud. Ever.

'I was so alone, and I owe you so much. You aren't here anymore, this is the final proof. This means you're gone forever. I'm sorry Sherlock, that you didn't tell me, that I never asked. The biggest think I'm sorry for, however, is that I never said just how much you mean to me. I never actually said, 'I love you'. Three simple words, aren't they? Yet I never bothered to say them to you. You did me… and they were the last things I heard before you jumped, the last thing I heard at night and the first thing in the morning.'

Joans breath shuddered as a warm tear snaked its way down her face and the wind blew her hair. She felt a weight being slowly lifted off of her chest.

'Why didn't I say them back? I have no idea. I'll regret it though- it seems like the most common phrase I say to you now. But what does it matter? I never said it to you while you were next to me, holding me and whispering into my ear. While you were…. _Alive._'

Joan rested her cheek on the side of the stone, leaning in. It was surprisingly warm and comforting as her breath shuddered again.

'Sorry, my love. You gave me everything I ever wanted, ever needed… even after you've died, you've blessed me with twins. Sherlock and Zaphira, do you like that? So does it seem selfish to ask for one more thing? Just one? Can you please not be dead? Can you please wake me up now, and comfort me when I realise this has just been a bad dream, and I am safe with you, little Sher and Zaphira running about the flat? Please?'

Joan screwed her eyes shut as some more tears fell. She hadn't expected to wake up, of course, but a small part of her hoped.

Joan stood up, ensuring as much contact with the dark and smooth marble as possible. She leant down to press her lips softly against it. Her hand lightly brushed the top of the stone, feeling the texture underneath her fingers.

_When shall these divisions alter?_

_Echo's answer seems to falter;_

_'Oh the unperplexed, unvexed time-_

'_Next time, one day, one day, next time…_' Joan whispered. 'Goodbye, my love. Sleep well, I'll be back soon- and happy anniversary.'

* * *

please rate and review! Sherlock x


	12. Seven percent solution

'Happy anniversary.'

Sherlock's heart broke. Even more than it already was, if that was possible. He was watching on the phone he had stolen from Mycroft- his was fitted with the CCTV camera viewing system and Sherlock's wasn't. It was a poor excuse, but an excuse nonetheless.

He sniffed, twirled the phone around in his hands, the shudder that came shortly after rocked his frail frame, and as he breathed his head lightly bumped the wall.

_In love's dances, in love's dances,_

_One retreats and one advances._

_One grows warmer and one colder,_

_One more hesitant, one bolder._

_One gives what the other needed_

_Once, or will need, now unheeded._

_One is clenched, compact, in-growing,_

_While the other's melting, flowing._

_One is smiling and concealing,_

_While the other's asking, kneeling._

_One is arguing or sleeping,_

_While the other's weeping, weeping._

_And the question finds no answer,_

_And the tune misleads the dancer,_

_And the lost look finds no other,_

_And the lost hand finds no brother,_

_And the word is left unspoken,_

_When shall these divisions alter?_

_Echo's answer seems to falter;_

_'Oh the unperplexed, unvexed time_

_Next time, one day, one day, next time…_

Sherlock sighed.

He was curled up in his room, the door locked. Looking at it, it was quite possibly the furthest away from Baker street as you could get.

There was a purple bed, for one. In Baker street, Sherlock had a sofa- he didn't like to sleep, and so he bought an ugly green sofa to compensate. Joan had had a fit when she moved it to find bleach, blood and chemical stains on the floor. The thought still made him laugh, and he had stubbornly kept it simply because it made his lover funny-angry- Joan had laughed but was still kind of angry at the same time.

Then there was the case files and books- hundreds of them, all muddled up, piled in corners and stacked messily in the middle of the room. Not here- there was one bookshelf, and on it were only two case files; one for Moran, the other was for the rest of Moriarty's criminal team.

After that was the view, obviously. No longer was it the busy streets of London, people weaving in and out, seeing but simply not observing the scene around them… for they were walking on a battlefield, from the soldiers and the scared victims, the murderer and the murdered all together, so mixed up it was hard to tell who was who. No, not here- he had a view of mountains, and a small town miles and miles and miles away. So dull, so _boring._ He had never bothered to go.

Now, if you had seen Sherlock a few months back, 'I can't be bothered' was one of the rarest phrases in his vocabulary (among with 'No, Joan, it's safe.', 'Please.,' 'Thanks.' and 'Sorry.'). Now it was possibly the most uttered one.

Because the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't be bothered to do anything-

Actually, stop. That's a lie.

He could be bothered to do three things- catch Moran (wherever the hell he was) and watch over Joan and….

He wasn't sure actually. He looked at himself in the mirror which was across from him- he looked wild, desperate and needy. His hair was tangled and his clothed rumpled; he was still the addict that he was four yeats ago. Sherlock _needed_ the seven per-cent solution that was in the syringe at this very moment, in his shaking fist.

'Should I?' Said Sherlock out loud, feeling the weight of it in his fingers, the texture, and imaging the ecstasy and clearness that would come with what was in the syrine. 'Shouldn't I?'

'_Just one more time… just one.'_

Sherlock's eyes opened wide as his head spun, trying to find the intruder. His eagle eyes scanned the room…but there wasn't one, he realised with some surprise.

The voice (which sounded chillingly like Moriarty) was all inside his head.

'_Once more… just the one. Then you'll never have to do it again... unless you want too. Just imagine the exhilaration Sherlock!'_

'_But…'_

'_But what? Sherlock, you have nothing. Joan will hate you after this, she won't forgive you. You and I both__** know**__ that,'_ the voice drawled_. 'We also kno__w it is best for her to still believe that you're dead. It's better for you both that way.'_

'_But… he said. Joan would forgive me, she's like that.'_

'_Who said?'_

'_Mycroft, and he's always rig-'_

'_MYCROFT, _MYCROFT**, MYCROFT-!**'Sherlock actually covered his ears as the sound reverberated on the insides of his head, like an aggravated ape on glass as the voice suddenly became much more than angry._ 'He got you into this situation! He told you to plan this! Your relationship and happiness meant_** nothing**_- Joan was a mere tool in his game. He. To__ld. You! Do you remember, Sherlock, the day that they put you to rest, the day that you jumped and when she saw you on the table? Do you remember how she had howled in actual, physical pain of losing you?'_

'_Shut up. Please.'_

The voice remained silent. Sherlock breathed deeply as a tear fell down his cheek and his syringe hand shook even worse.

'_See what I mean?'_

Sherlock jumped violently.

'_Mycroft is to blame. It is all Mycroft's fault, even at the beginning. You could never compare to Mycroft. Who would __look at you, next to him? He was the powerful one, the smart one, the charismatic one… and just look at _you_. HE _drove_ you to this, Sherlock. Well, maybe or maybe not-not even your mother and father could love you- wasn't it Sherlock Woodbridge before?'_

'_Shut up.'_

'_No, actually, I'm just getting started. Your own__ biological mother and father couldn't love you. Heck, even your adoptives-' _Sherlock flinched_. '-couldn't even _like_ you. They already had Mycroft, y'know, an actual _relation_- god knows why they took in a stray dog.'_

'_Mummy and father loved me-'_

'_No, they didn't Sherlock. You're lying.'_

Sherlock sobbed dryly as he realised. Mycroft always had been the favourite… but….

'_You're inside my head. You can't hurt me.'_

'_Aha, but does that mean I can hurt you more? Should be fun finding out.'_

* * *

Joan stretched and yawned.

She turned to the coat next to her- yes, she still slept with it- and looked over to her alarm clock. She'd woken early, so she sighed and laid back down on the pillow.

Her eyes wrenched open as her phone buzzed.

_Morning. –MH_

_Mycroft, have u bugged the flat?- JW x_

_Maybe –MH_

_Maybe isn't an answer. JW_

_Yes. I bugged the flat.- MH_

_For god sakes, is anything of mine private? JW_

_No -MH_

_Y not? JW_

_I need to keep you safe. -MH_

Joan sighed and re-read the texts again. Hang on…

_You never sign ur texts at the end JW_

_Yes I do -MH_

_No, You don't. JW_

_I do. Now -MH_

_New habit? JW_

_Could say that –MH_

Joan sighed and shook her head. She would never know what went on in the funny heads of the Holmes's.

* * *

Sherlock smiled, but frowned at the same time.

_Joan, its not Mycroft. Its Sherlock- I never jumped. I'm in Russia. I love you so much. I'm so sorry… SH_

Sherlock sighed as he slid the phone down, deleting the text he never sent, feeling defeated as people moved and shoved past him in the busy street.

It had started to snow. Tears brimmed, hot and scalding, as they then fell from the red rimmed eyes and froze on his face and scarf.

Sherlock sighed as a text buzzed on his phone. As he opened it, he smiled. Four simple words that gave him comfort even as the darkness started to elope onto him.

_Stay strong, little brother_

Sherlock quickly tapped out a reply.

_I will -SH_


	13. Sherlock Woodbridge

_This chapter is dedicated to Trufflehead- she's so cool! A wonderful person and a brilliant motivator, this is just a little token of my thanks._

_Also, thank you so much to those who are taking their time to review, subscribe and fav... it really means alot to me!_

_Sorry it's a bit late- we have our End of years coming up, so I've had to put myself in a self-induced writers block... I have 14 tests to revise for! But I am trying and I hope that you enjoy this chapter._

_If you can, take a second to review please!_

_Sherlock x_

* * *

'Do you have any idea's on names yet?'

That question had been asked hundreds of times- by Lestrade, Molly, passers on the street- but it always raised a smile on Joan's face; always.

'Hmm… yes, I think so.' She would reply, smiling mischievously. 'But I like to keep you guessing.'

That raised a smile to everyone else's face- for she was the tragic heroine that had turned her life around, who had carried on battling through her dramatic life; the little tin solider.

However, that wasn't the reason she didn't want to shout it from the rooftops: the real reason was because she knew the implications. Joanne was thirty-six, for Pete's sake… what if? She didn't want to just _throw_ herself in, headfirst, like moth expectant mothers- because…_what if_ something happened? What happened if one of her twins survived, or both… she couldn't bear to think about it.

Joan's mouth quirked one day while she was chatting to Greg about her worries, and suddenly something so _Sherlock _slipped out.

'What do you do about your worries? I mean, it must be a constant nagging at the back of your mind. What do you do?'

'I just delete it.'

…..

Joan's eyelids fluttered, and she gasped in surprise at the intently blue eyes that bore into her no longer sleeping form.

Her army training kicked in, and in seconds she no longer found herself stood up defensively, but nearly toppling over as her large stomach overbalanced her. Mycroft suddenly was at her side, and grabbed her elbow, eyebrows raised.

'You have to be careful!'

A splutter came out of Joanne's mouth, but no words. Her speech centres had shut down.

'Gndghndghnd!'

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, and Joan felt herself blush a deeper rouge. She took a deep breath.

'I would be careful,' she retorted, 'but it's not every day you find a scary government official in your living room, watching you sleep. That, Mycroft, is damn well _creepy._ How long have you been doing it?'

'Not long, only a few hours.'

Joan blushed as she thought of some of the dreams she'd been having- Joan secretly hoped that Mycroft wouldn't notice, before she reminded herself that this was Sherlock's _brother-_ the one who doesn't miss a thing.

Joan cleared her throat awkwardly; Mycrofts unrelenting glare was making her feel slightly awkward.

'Actually, that's a good point- how do you get _into _my flat?'

Out of his breast pocket, Mycroft fished out a sliver key and threw it to Joan.

'You really shouldn't keep keys under the doormat- it's terribly unsecure.'

Joan's heart was pounding, her shoulders broad and blood pooling into her arms and legs, ready for fight or flight, and yet she couldn't figure out why. Then she realised- the adrenaline spike from where she'd woken up was now starting to be flushed from her system and in its place was exhaustion.

'Oh… I see.'

Joan grabbed the back of the stool to steady herself as grey spots suddenly clouded her vision. She was actually feeling incredibly sick, and she heard Mycroft move something behind her. He stepped into Joan's field of vision, concern knotted in every feature. Hang on- even through the foggy haze of her brain, she knew that look- deduction. Joan groaned.

'Not enough iron. Jo-'

Joan cut of Mycroft with a gasp- something suddenly kicked with so much force that she was sure it would leave a bruise. Joan doubled up, as a fluttering feeling started just below her lower abdomen. Something quivered, just like she had swallowed a flock of small birds or some butterfly...or, strangely, it was almost like a goldfish was swimming around in her guts.

It took her a few seconds to realise she was feeling her daughter and son moving.

Slightly dumbstruck, Joan allowed herself to be pulled up by Mycroft, who was talking about a mile a minute and making no sense. Babbling.

'Were going to have to go to hospital-'

'-Mycroft, I-'

'No, no- we can't have you fainting-'

'Mycroft-'

'-How many weeks are you?-'

'-It's just the-'

'-No, no, I insist! Joan-

'_Mycroft! _Calm down!'

Mycroft fell silent, his Blackberry clad hand dropping to his side. Briefly, Joan wondered if Mycroft had ever been near anyone that was expecting - he was rather erratic and flustered while Joan was around, which was really out of character. Then there was this new habit of dragging his fingers through his hair, which Joan had noticed that he'd been doing a lot more lately.

'Mycroft, I'm fine-' almost instantly, the grey dots started to wander to the left and rights of her vision, fading entirely. '-I guess I just hadn't been eating enough iron. I'm fine.'

'But you doubled up! I thought… I-I'

'Don't worry, it's just Zaph and Sherlock kicking about. Nothing to worry about.'

Mycroft visibly relaxed, the breath he didn't know he was holding whooshing out of his mouth.

'Oh…'

'Yeah…' One of the babies kicked so hard that she was momentarily winded. 'See?' she gasped, clutching her stomach as Mycroft's face clouded with worry again. 'This one is a little solider, I'm gonna be black and blue by the time he's done!'

….

Joan was lounged across the sofa, the room swaying slightly as if she was on a boat.

'Ugh!'

Mycroft tried to keep his expression neutral, but a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. Joanne felt even worse than she had that morning.

'Mycroft, please come over here so I can throttle you.'

Mycroft snorted, and Joan tried to get up, before another wave of dizziness sent her tumbling back into the arm of the sofa. Joan buried her head in a cushion.

'Oh, God…'

'Joanne? I believe they call it a bug.'

'I know that! But why _me?_ Why _now?_I mean, it's bad enough that I cannot find a comfortable position- my back is killing me now- and now this vomiting bug? Give me a break!'

'Could be worse,' Mycroft said brightly. 'Don't ask me how, but I'm pretty sure it could be.'

Joan rolled over so that she could glare daggers at Mycroft. I worked, until a sharp twinge made her curl up into a ball.

'Why do you keep doing that?' Said Mycroft, frowning once again. 'Does it hurt?'

'_Obviously!_ The bugger is kicking my bloody ribs, nonstop! My back hurts and I bet I'm gonna be a monster to be with, what with all my hormones going crazy. Have you ever been around someone that's pregnant?'

'No.'

Mycroft twiddled with his umbrella, eyes averted, while Joan looked at him curiously, her coiled body slowly relaxing as Sherlock and Zaphira fluttered in her lower abdomen instead.

'What? But Sherlock- big Sherlock, I mean- you were seven-'

'No, I wasn't.'

'Explain what I've got wrong then. So you weren't there?'

'Joan,' Mycroft said seriously, 'Sherlock isn't my brother. He's actually my cousin.'

Joan was speechless, her mouth hanging open as she looked at Mycroft.

'W-what?'

Mycroft took a deep breath, before draining the last dregs out of his cup and placing his fingers his a locked position.

'When I was seven, my Aunt and Uncle were involved in a collision after going out for the night. Sherlock was left with mother and I, we were babysitting him for the night. About two o'clock, we received a call- My Aunty Camilla and Uncle David were, unfortunately, dead. Died instantly in a head on- so suddenly we were appointed legal guardians of this little two-month old thing. I remember it well.'

'Was this on your mothers side or-?'

'Mummy's side. Sherlock's last name was Woodbridge- when Mummy adopted him, she changed it to Holmes.'

'But…' Joan was still trying to absorb this new information. She was spluttering slightly, 'But you called him 'dear brother'. You said he w-was your brother!'

'He was about seven months old when he came to live with us legally- I was seven years. I watched him grow, and he was like the sibling I had always wanted. As far as I'm concerned, he was my brother, but by blood he was my cousin. So?'

'No, it doesn't make a difference… but really, how could I have not found out sooner?'

Mycroft shrugged.

'Never asked. Besides-' he said hurriedly, seeing Joans slightly pained expression. 'He didn't like talking about it; we never told him, see, and he found out while poking about in Mummy's room when he was fifteen. I've never seen him so hurt.'

'Oh… that's why you looked so different.'

'Chalk and cheese,' Mycroft agreed, laughing. 'I mean, I'm redheaded, tall, fat-' Joan looked like she was about to argue, but Mycroft shook his head. 'I know, I know- and Sherlock was tall, dark and handsome. Really, the only thing we shared was the tallness and the smartness. Both came from mother's side, definitely not Daddy's.'

'So, how did he find out?' Joan sat up, ignoring the dizziness and spots that suddenly obscured her vision.

'It was in September- he'd just turned fifteen- and he was looking in Father's study, because he had accidently set the curtains alight and so, as punishment, father had taken away his chemicals and microscope. He was climbing onto the top shelf, when everything toppled down. I heard the bang, and came racing through, and when I saw all the certificates burst out of the file we kept them in, my heart sank.'

'You didn't try to stop him?'

'No, because that would only raise questions. He would find out eventually- anyway, the folder burst open, and a picture fell out, among all the adoption and name change certificates. Sherlock was upset, then livid- no-one had told him. He thought that I was his brother, his aunt was his mother, and his uncle his father. How devastating must that be?'

'True…' Joan looked at Mycroft, assessing all the similarities (because, actually, there were so many) and differences. 'Poor Sherlock.'

'Hmmm….' Mycroft hummed in agreement, slowly watching the crackling fire in 221B. 'But I was devastated- I knew, but I dare not tell him. Like I said, I love him as a brother, and he is. I don't think of him as Sherlock Woodbridge, my insufferable cousin; he was Sherlock Holmes, my insufferable but brilliant brother.'

'Well, if it's any consolation-' said Joan, looking at Mycroft who, on the outside had remained poker, but on the inside she was sure he was getting quite upset. '-I consider you to be Sherlock's brother, ergo I consider you to be my children's uncle.'

Mycroft looked up, eyes bright- Joan ignored that and smiled warmly at him, her hand rubbing and soothing the kicking underneath the skin of her stomach.

'However, it doesn't mean that I won't discourage them to call you 'Uncle Mymy.'

Mycroft smiled.


	14. Not good enough

'I am going back, Mycroft.'

The tall man had his back facing Mycroft; the latter was sat in the chair, his fingers under his chin.

'I see.'

Sherlock whirled around, his great coat flying and eyes wide and furious. The eyes, Mycroft noted, were bloodshot and tired but so very, very alive. They observed calmly, no matter how panicked his face looked.

''I see?' Is that all you ever say, Mycroft?' Sherlock had lost even more weight, his fingers were trembling and his beautiful green eyes were clouded with tears. 'You say nothing of use. _Nothing!_ You think it's perfectly acceptabl-'

'Sherlock,' huffed Mycroft, trying to remain calm as he ran a hand through his red hair. 'Please. You're not good enough for Joan-'

Mycroft had to duck suddenly to avoid a vase: it shattered into hundreds of pieces as it hit the wall.

'Sherlock!'

The younger man advanced on him. Placing his hands either side of Mycroft, he leant forward until their noses were nearly touching- Mycroft wanted to flinch away, but stubbornly held his ground.

'_Don't_ ever say that to me again.' Sherlock said dangerously, his top lip curling. Mycroft was perplexed.

'Say what?'

'You know what!'

'No, Sherlock, I don't. Can you please say it rationally, and sensibly, like an _adult?_'

Sherlock looked at Mycroft for a moment, before his tears started to fall down the sunken planes of his face. He sat down with a small huff, and curled himself into a ball.

'I'm s-so sorry!'

Mycroft remained as confused as ever.

'Sherlock, what didn't you want me to say?'

The man looked up, his unruly curls framing his sharp cheekbones- Irene Adler was right a few _months_ ago when she said she could cut herself on them. Now, you'd probably slice your hand clean off.

'The truth.'

'What truth?'

'T-the truth… that I'm not good enough for Joan.' That brought a fresh wave of tears and Sherlock curled once again into a ball on the floor. Everything seemed to click for Mycroft, so he got down on the floor with Sherlock. His knee ached dully in protest, but he dutifully ignored it as he tried to put an arm around Sherlock. The latter flinched away.

'Sherlock, I didn't mean you weren't good enough-'

'No, I know, I know… but it's always there.'

'What's always there?'

'The fact that I'm not good enough for anything.' Mycroft frowned at this.

''Lock, don't be-' he tried to think of a word that wouldn't offend an uncharacteristically fragile ego-ed Sherlock. He failed to find one, so Mycroft started his sentence again. 'Sherlock, you're brilliant. Smart. Funny. _Human__-'_

'No, I'm not. The nation thinks I'm a fake. My lover thinks I'm dead, and will murder me herself when she finds out I've been alive. My twins will have a failure for a father-'

'Sherlock,' said Mycroft, exasperated. 'Please, will you _stop_ saying that?'

'Why, Mycroft?' the man looked at him with tired eyes, eyes that looked ready to give up. 'I feel like I'm the worst, so I act like I'm the best. Simple.'

Mycroft pulled the smaller man into a hug… It was nice for a moment, until panic flooded him as he felt Sherlock's vertebrae, his ribs and his sharp elbows, even underneath all those clothes.

'Sherlock, you haven't been eating.'

It wasn't a question- it was a cold, hard fact_. Obvious,_ as Sherlock used to say. Sherlock blushed crimson, knowing Mycroft was silently demanding an answer. There was silence for a few minutes while Sherlock tried to put it into words. In the end, he cleared his throat.

'It was a way of… feeling. To make sure I hadn't lost them.'

'So you starve yourself instead? Sherlock, do I have to tell you how damn _idiotic _that is?'

Sherlock averted his eyes under his brothers gaze. He sighed.

'No, you don't. But hunger was a _distraction_. It was a way of _focus_ on the work… but I can't even do _that _anymore!' A big fat tear escaped one of those brilliantly green eyes. 'See? I can't do anything!'

'But, Sherlock, you were making progress!' Mycroft cried, afraid he may just break his brother if he hugged any harder. His eyes spotted the blue folder and he inched his way towards it, eventually reaching it and flicking it open.

'See? Look at all the people, Moriarty's people that are now dead!'

'But there is one left. The most important one.' A skeletal finger rested on Moran's page, the only portrait without a large red 'X' through it. 'Sebastian. I can't find him; I'm so sorry, Mycroft. I've failed you, Joan-' his voice cracked, and the folder flew across the room.

Mycroft hugged his little brother harder, blinking furiously

'Sebastian doesn't matter, Sherlock. I promise.'

Sherlock looked up again at his brother miserably. 'But it _does. _The reason why I came out here…'

'No, 'Lock. The reason why you came out here was to keep Joan safe, and you've done a wonderful job. You've disabled his web- there is no way the criminal underworld will be the same, nor as successful. The Yarders, and Lestrade will all be grateful. Once Joanne realises this, and _why _I think she'll understand.'

What Sherlock couldn't wrap his head around was the whole failing thing. It made his chest ache, depression cloud his great brain and tears threaten to overspill again. His thoughts banged through his head like a drum- _failed, failed, failed, failed, failed, failed, failed, failed, failed….._

Mycroft could hear those thoughts, they were so loud. He hugged his brother tigher.

'Sherlock….Don't ever say you're a failure again. _Ever._ You are good enough, and ironically it's Joan that thinks she's not.'

Sherlock Holmes sobbed, clinging onto Mycroft for dear life. Tears soaked through the blazer, but Mycroft couldn't care any less.

So there is where the two men sat, for hours on end or mere minutes neither could be sure. One think was sure- nothing would've convinced either to let go.

* * *

'I think-' whispered Mycroft into a half-asleep Sherlock's ear as the man clung round his neck like a gangly monkey as Mycroft lay him on his bed. '-It _is _time for you to go home.'

'Home?' whispered Sherlock back, his eyes slightly crossed as he tried to comprehend the foreign word. 'Home?'

'Yeah, 'Lock… home. With Joan and the twins.' Mycroft was greeted by one of the best things in the world- Sherlock Holmes smiling. It made him warm inside and, rather embarrassingly, blinking back tears all over again.

'Good, because here isn't my home.'

'Well, they do say home is where your heart is.'

Sherlock lifted his head slightly, trying to get a view of the government official in the dark room.

'But, My…. by that logic I never left.'

* * *

Thank god the wait was nearly over.

Joan was now seriously struggling to do mundane things, like bend over. Her mountain of a stomach was constantly getting in her way, she missed all the comfort foods that now made her sick and she even missed doing dull things, like housework (Mrs Hudson had been kind enough to lend a helping hand).

However, Joan knew she _wouldn't _miss the weird cravings for stuff that she didn't keep in her flat- Like the craving for fried eggs and chilli she had had that morning. Or pickled onions and tomato soup. Or fish fingers and custard.

The twins were healthy, and also very active. Even now, as she was updating her blog, she could feel them nudge and shove each other inside her, as if fighting for attention. Joan smiled.

_Nearly there!__ So very close…__can't wait! :-) __ Going into hospital tonight, hopefully twins will be born soon__- if not in a week then they're going to be induced__.__ Thank god- my back is killing me and I'm struggling to find *flattering* jumpers!_

She paused for a moment, before continuing… her therapist would be happy next time they saw each other.

_I wish Sherlock was here to see this. The bruises, the smile on my face and how I've simply ballooned. I often find myself wondering if he'd have liked the whole pregnancy thing- I bet he would've laughed himself silly. They're both little fighters, I can feel it. Literally- I'm black and blue! _

_Anyway, soon my little boy and girl will be born!_

_Sherlock Mycroft Agathangelos Holmes_

_Zaphira Tiffany Gracie Holmes._

_Note: Tiffany is a play of epiphany- sudden realisation of great truth. What a realisation these two were! _

_Wish me luck!_

_JW_

* * *

Sherlock threw everything haphazardly into a suitcase, then running over to it and trying to force it close, but to no avail. Mycroft smirked from his position by the doorway.

'Sherlock, it's a private plane- there is no rush.'

The younger man looked up, and Mycroft was amazed at the sudden transformation. His eyes were bright and green, with no fog to cloud the genius within; his whole frame, body, heart were trembling with excitement (and Mycroft could honestly say that he had never seen Sherlock so charged since he arrived in Russia); most of all, he looked alive. Sherlock's life suddenly had excitement, drive and meaning. He was a new man- and so alive.

'Ah, brother, there is. I need to get home.'

'Hm?'

Sherlock grinned as the zip finally curved round a massive bulge of clothes in the case.

'Yes- Joan and my children are my reason.'

Mycroft felt his heart stutter, before it regained its rhythm. He held a hand up to his chest curiously, before saying (truthfully); 'Sherlock, that is probably one of the sanest things you have ever said to me. Joan is making you a better person after all!'

Sherlock rolled his eyes and lugged the suitcase off of the bed- for such an underweight man, he had a surprising amount of strength.

'I agree- now can we _please_ hurry up? I want to see them!'


	15. How well can you speak Russian?

Everything for Sherlock and Zaphira was taken care of, courtesy of Mycroft. He refused to hear of Joanne herself paying for anything. _Honestly__, Sherlock_, she though fondly, looking around Sherlock's old room (which had been transformed into a nursery), _you would've loved this_.

Joan sighed and flicked off the light.

* * *

John hated busses.

It was just the ignorance of some people. The way you had people breathing down your neck, children whining, or the way so many people were crammed in such a small space… either way, she couldn't stand it. She felt sick, and dizzy. Joan groaned- not here, not on a bloody bus, she couldn't get sick or vomit on a bus. It would just be too embarrassing.

Struggling to get out of her seat, she signalled the red bus to stop _this goddamned minute_ and hopped out, hoping to get a taxi.

Even though both of her children kicked her a good one in the ribs for getting up so fast, the moment she felt fresh air on her face and people were out of her personal space her negative feelings lifted and swirled away with the wind.

Joan smiled at her luck- while her taxi hailing skills were seriously impaired (she couldn't whistle to save her life and if she waved she was afraid her top might ride up over her huge stomach) a dark taxi glided to her side the moment she stepped out of the bus.

The man in the front with dark hair and glasses smiled crookedly as he rolled down the window.

'Where to, love?'

'Um…' the accent was a bit off. Was he French? Certainly not from around these parts, Joan thought. The accent was thick, and the 'love' on the end sounded unnatural, forced. Joan ignored the gooseflesh that rose on her arms- it must be the cold London air- and smiled back. 'Um… Saint Barts hospital, please.'

'Right-o. You're pregnant; free of charge?'

'Wow. Um, really, it's fine-'

The man waved his hand and smiled wider. He gestured for Joan to get into the taxi.

'No, no! Free taxi- it's the least I can do!'

Joan forced a smile (this guy was really _not _letting up) and strapped herself in. She briefly saw the licence- Andre Neveu.

The car started to move, and Joan looked up as the locks snapped shut.

She wasn't sure what terrifed her more- the fact that she was now locked in (and the driver was leering at her in the mirror), or the fact that something just squeezed in her lower pelvis.

Uh oh.

* * *

Sherlock huffed impatiently.

'Mycroft,' he whined, prodding his brother. Mycroft looked up, unimpressed, but Sherlock carried on regardless. 'Can you tell your bloody driver to go _faster?'_

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

'Sherlock, he's going as fast as he can. If we go any faster we'll be breaking the law.'

'But you're the _government! _You can get away with-'

'How many times must I tell you, I am not the government. I occupy a small-ish position- I can't just go breaking my own laws!'

'Fine.' Sherlock huffed, and opened his violin case. Mycroft narrowed his eyes as Sherlock prodded the divers head with his bow. 'Hey, excuse me, can you please go a bit faster?' another prod, and the driver looked in his mirror angrily. Mycroft said something to the driver, and Sherlock looked at his brother for an explanation.

'Sherlock, he can't understand you. I made sure he was of a language that you didn't speak.' Mycroft smiled and shook his head, before he got back to his paper. He _would _get a minute of peace even if it killed him.

'What language does he speak then?'

Mycroft sighed, before putting down his paper and looking at the agitated man. 'Russian. The driver is Russian, and he doesn't speak a word of English.'

'You speak Russian?'

'Obviously, Sherlock. Every government official is required to speak at least two other languages, and English doesn't count. I speak Russian, Spanish and Polish.'

Sherlock frowned as he absorbed this new information. He made sure that he didn't delete it- could be useful sometime.

Mycroft phone buzzed in his pocket; he flipped it open, not a second before Sherlock's phone buzzed. He curiously patted his pockets and withdrew the phone, before opening the message. His heart froze in his chest.

_How fun this game has been, I have loved to see you struggle to find me. I have Joan… she's my little toy now, Sherlock. You can't play with her heart any longer- but I can. Find her, she lives- if you don't…wellllllll, I'll let you imagine the details. __;-) SM_

Sherlock scrolled down, before finding a picture that made him half shriek, half sob.

'Oh, God, Mycroft-'

Mycroft's face looked ashen as he looked up from his own screen- he'd been sent the same attachments. Sherlock briefly wondered if he was going to be sick, before his brother regained his composure and ran a hand through his hair. He cleared his throat.

'Oh, Jesus… Right. Okay-' another hand tugged at his ginger hair. He then addressed the smartly dressed driver. 'Cэр, дай мне и моему брату в Лондон, так же быстро, как вы можете. Не беспокойтесь по поводу штрафов за превышение скорости, я буду заботиться о них.'

The driver looked up, as did Sherlock, astonished at what Mycroft had just said. It was a shock to hear Mycroft speaking in another pitch, the words ripping fluently from his mouth.

The driver then frowned- 'Но ... сэр. Я мог потерять свою лицензию!'

Mycroft growled- whatever the driver was doing, it sure as hell wasn't speeding up. He sighed before taking another tactic- Sherlock watched anxiously.

'Делай, как я говорю, или я сделаю, что вы никогда не будете снова работать в Англии.' Mycroft suddenly paused, before continuing, 'Или в любом месте, по этому вопросу.'

The drivers eyes averted away from the mirror, and to Sherlock's giddy relief, they were speeding up. Sherlock laughed breathlessly, the sound sounding harsh and needy as it turned into sobs.

'W-what did you say?'

'I told him the facts.' Mycroft shook his paper, before looking over it. 'I told him that if he doesn't damn well speed up, I will make sure he will lose him job and never be able to get a job anywhere else again.' He smiled at Sherlock, oddly genuine. 'She'll be okay, Sherlock. I promise.'

'You can't promise me that.'

At the same time, they both looked down to the picture on Sherlock's screen. So much for Mycroft's moment of peace.

Joan looked so innocent, but so terrified and confused, her face twisted in pain… in the back of a black London cab.


	16. Kings and Queens

**_Sorry for the massive wait! Teachers won't give me a break -.- But anyway, chapter... 16, now? Oooh! Only a few more chapters left- I can probably fit about 2 more in. Boy, I'm going to be sad when this is over!_**

**_Anyway, I just wanted to say a massive thank you! Without all your brilliant support, I would've never even bothered to go past chapter 2. I want to say a special thanks to Trufflehead, 88Dragon, and scarylittleghostgirl- all have been brilliant!_**

**_Anyway, enough waffle- new chapter (boy, I am so evil!)_**

* * *

'So this is what you do, is it?' Joan somehow found it in her to laugh, the hysterical sound bouncing in the enclosed space of the black London cab. 'How you get your thrills? Kidnap pregnant women?'

She had worked it out now. How could I've been so stupid? Joan asked herself angrily. The hair was darker, not the ash blonde she remembered, and the empty, soulless eyes were covered up with the flimsy brown plastic of contact lenses. It amused Joan that 'Andre' had glasses- they were too big, and kept slipping down his nose so eventually the driver was so irked that he threw them out of the window.

His skin was slightly more tanned than usual- obviously even England, one of the coolest, rainiest places on the earth, was hotter than the unforgiving ice and snow of Russia.

Yes… she had worked it out, and that made sheer panic claw at her throat. She was sharing a cab with Sebastian Moran.

The drive seemed to go on for eternity, silently punctuated with brief clenches in Joan's abdomen.

Doctor Watson tried to keep calm-the average labour went on for twelve hours, so she still had ages to go yet. Ages- her water hadn't even broken yet!

Because there wasn't a clock anywhere, she couldn't tell how far apart they were; not that she wanted to know. She had a terrible feeling that she couldn't shake- sure, she hadn't studies labour or pregnancy, but surely her Brooke Hick contractions shouldn't be that bad? As another sudden tightening knocked her breathless, Sebastian scowled.

'What's up with you, then?'

Joan wasn't sure where they were. They were going surprisingly fast, where-ever-they-were flitting about in a dizzying whirr of colour. Joan didn't answer him, and Sebastian's scowl deepened. The tension sizzled like electricity in the air.

'I said, what is wrong with you?'

Tears smarted her eyes, and she whimpered. 'I-I… I don't know.'

Sebastian rolled his eyes. 'Well, can you please keep it down then?'

Joan nodded, all the endorphins and adrenalin draining from her system and leaving her exhausted. Joan wanted to be at home, at 221B, anywhere but here.

Her brain seemed to want to torture her today. First, she has gone into an odd state of Brookes-Hicks… was she in real labour, or was it a false alarm? Well, Joan couldn't feel any wetness, so she assumed it was false. No, scratch that- she hoped, wished, dreamed it was false. What would Moran do with two helpless newborns and an exhausted mother? More tears pricked her eyes and her stomach clenched painfully at the thought.

Next, Sherlock's face popped into her mind. Joan had had this fear, this niggling sensation at the back of her mind for weeks. Could she actually remember his face? The cheekbones, the lips, the eyes? Had she forgotten her lovers face, only remembering how people described him but not actually him himself?

Joan realised she had nothing to worry about- as his face suddenly flashed in front of her closed lids, she realised she had remembered more of Sherlock than she ever hoped.

Joan cured into the foetal position, because it relieved the ever-mounting pressure on her stomach and pelvis. Her mind became blissfully blank as it drifted to Sherlock- what if Sherlock was still alive, what if he had been here? Would Joan still have been here, in the back of a cheap London cab after mistaking a murderous psychopath for a kind and gentle cab owner who wanted to do a good deed to a heavily pregnant woman? The answer sprung to mind immediately-No. Of course not. He would've deduced straight away, steered her away from danger.

Her bottom lip trembled and another tear languidly leaked out of her closed lid. The intensity of the moment must've messed up her head- she could see Sherlock next to her, breathing in his scent and feeling the warm press of his lips to her ear.

'_Joan, it'll be alright, I promise.'_

When she opened her eyes as another Brooke-Hicks ripped through her frame, with crushing disappointment Joan realised she was alone.

* * *

'Sherlock, slow down!'

'No, no, no! This can't be happening!'

The Holmes brothers ran through the crowded public airport- why did Mycroft decide public? How was that a good idea?

The elder Holmes gritted his teeth as he ran through Heathrow, catching up with his brother, even though the cramps in his legs and stitch in his side were making him cringe. Somehow, the pain made him faster.

'It's-' Sherlock looked at his watch, frowning as the jogging made it hard for his to see the face. '-lunchtime. How is it lunchtime?'

'There's a time difference.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes and his mouth twitched in a crooked smile before falling down again. 'Obviously.'

As they ran out of the airport, a cab was ready and waiting. Sherlock grimanced.

'Does this one speak Russian?'

'No,' Mycroft smiled as they both clambered into the cab, a mass of gangling and awkward limbs as they both tried to get in at the same time. Eventually they distangled themselves and Sherlock found himself face to face with the cabbie-

_Cheating wife._

_2... no, 3 children, all girls. Wait- one boy, the other girl is a tom-boy and the other a girly girl._

_Large dog, probably a labradoodle. _

_Hardworking, in debt, cannot affort a mechanic judging by the recent oil stains. He tried to fix the car himself._

_Cat lover_

'Ah rig'?' Sherlock cringed as the harsh Cockney accent cut through his deduction. Out of politeness, he curtly nodded.

'Get us to Baker Street, London, please. As fast as you can go, and if you get us there before half past you can guarantee you won't have to pay your taxes ever again.' Mycroft opened his mouth furiously, before being cut off by a glare from Sherlock. He raised his eyebrows, before flopping bonelessly into the seat and doing up the thick black belt.

The cabbie looked at Mycroft, in his posh Westwood suit, and then at Sherlock in a scruffy hoody and ripped jeans, his hair far too long and going into his eyes. A look of shock suddenly came over the cabbie as his eyebrows suddenly raised as he drank in the sight of Mycroft, looking flustered and his red hair stuck up from where he had ran his hands through it.

'Ma God- you're the gah of the telly! The ploit'cs, ent ya? Mike Holmes? Mikey-?'

'-Mycroft Holmes. This is my brother, Sherlock, now can you please get us to Baker Street? It's not that far.'

'Righ' sir.'

Sherlock could've cried in relief as the cab sped towards the motorway, towards home- apparently no taxes was an incredibly good bribe. He made sure to store that in his hard drive.

* * *

The car eventually rolled to a stop outside Barts' hospital. How had it taken so long to get there? It usually took ten minutes, tops to reach Joan's old workplace- it had taken about thirty minutes. Traffic?

Sebastian was out of the car in a flash and Joan bit her lip as he gestured, laughing towards a concerned, elderly looking man. What was he doing?

It soon became clear when the elderly man shook his head and walked away; Sebastian turned, his face dropping from the smiling mask to a filthy, murderous look in a matter of seconds- the old man had seen Joan. He had asked, cared that she was there, terrified, in the back of a London cab.

Joan Watsons only chance of survival… lost.

'Get out.' Joan jumped as suddenly Moran was opening the door for her. When she didn't react fast enough, he struck her round the face with something hard.

As Joan was propelled backwards by the force, at the same time she was grabbed by the fabric covering her shoulders. The across the shoulder the fabric tore and laddered as Sebastian literally went nose to nose with her.

'I told you, get out. I won't say it again_, Doctor_.'

As terrified as she was, she also felt oddly calm. Like she did when she was in Afghanistan, the bullets whistling past her head, the sweat beading on the military woman's forehead as she worked, hoping, saving, despairing over the lives she had lost but also those she had saved.

Only now she wasn't in Afghanistan.

She was in London, the busy city of England. If you blink there, a million things pass you …

…not that you would notice. You'd be too busy, too _ignorant,_ wrapped up in your own affairs….

…So who would notice a heavily pregnant woman, with blue eyes and dirty blonde hair, being threatened by a man with a heavy Russian accent and a gun?

Dear reader, I know you are probably shaking your head… 'That's not me, I would so notice, there is no way I wouldn't- I'm not that ignorant…' but I can guarantee you would...

If you weren't that ignorant, how come everyone else missed it? Everyone else ignored Joan. What makes _you_ so different, so special?

You see, dear reader, you _see_ the London cabs, the people, the plants and trees, the beautiful sky but you don't _observe_ the scene- the battle scars, the soldiers, the rich, the poor, the cheaters and the jokers, the kings and queens that rule the modern world.

Mycroft and people like Jim were kings. Sherlock was the cheater, able to read people at a glace like an open book. Irene was the joker, the teaser. People who Joan watched die were the soldiers, their family wounded by the fatal battle scars that their loved ones had sustained. Joan was nothing, compared to them.

Everybody saw Joan…

But they could only see, they never bothered to observe the fluttering pulse in her neck, the beading sweat on her forehead, the way she shuffled in front of Moran awkwardly, the tale-tale sign of a gun pressed _just _into the small of your back, forcing you to walk forward.

Suddenly, she felt alarming wetness in her underwear and barely concealed a groan of pain. _Shit!_ Her waters had broken, the clear liquid quickly running down her leg as she was shoved towards up a set of stairs_. Not here, not now, please please please…_

As she walked up the stairs in silence, Joan wondered if this is how she would die.

Zaphira and Sherlock gave her a kick for being so selfish.


	17. He really does love me too

**Que gross sobbing on my part.**

**So this is it. The final chapter of this. Boy, I am sad. Thank you all so so much for your support- especially Trufflehead and Snail (yes, you know who you are!) and 88Dragon- who have been brilliant! **

**Anyway... this is the final chapter. Sorry it is a bit late- life, y'know, gets in the way- but it is my biggest chapter to date. Over 6,759 words, in fact!**

**Anyway, please do enjoy. And also, a little tip- reviews are like muffins. I love them! It only takes a moment- and it doesn't even have to be positive!**

**Thank you so much, this is bigger than I ever intended. I couldn't have done it without you!**

* * *

I try not to panic. It's incredibly difficult.

I can feel Moran breathe down my neck, the gun in his hand pressed against the small of my back. I can hear my light footsteps echo, followed by some much heavier ones which swallow up my echo with a small boom. If I strain my ears hard enough, I can hear the busy London streets behind us, oblivious.

I can't really see anything of interest around me- it's just plain white walls, really. And staircases, which are quite dirty considering we are in a hospital. We meet no one. Whether that is his doing or not I'm not sure.

However, if I look down I can see dark stains on my light pink joggers, the clear fluid from the ruptured membrane running slowly down my leg. The stretchy material is quickly becoming soaked, which not only is uncomfortable but makes my stomach roll. This is why I was never a midwife. Gun wounds? Sure. Partially blown up? No problem. Oh, you've been stabbed? Bring it on.

It's kind of ironic, giving that I've seen so many die that I cannot stand the sight of someone bringing new life into the world. I've no idea why- it just makes me squirm. A sudden thought makes me want to start laughing. I honestly cannot believe it- a few years ago, I was sat in this very hospital, proudly declaring to my therapist that nothing exciting ever happens to me. Zero. Nada. Zilch. Now look- I met a self-proclaimed sociopath, taught him how to love, fell _in _love with him, then watched him throw himself off of a building. Then found out I was pregnant. Twins. Aaaand if that wasn't enough, I've now got a gun to my back, held by my hair by a freaking out psychopath and I'm starting to go into labour. Wow. And the old Joan was_ tired_ with her 'boring' civilian life? How I wish I had cherished those moments before I was thrown head first into _this_ mess.

Suddenly piercing pain rips through my abdomen. I cry out, and actually curl up with the pain, only to be yanked up into the standing position by Moran again. When I see him, he smiles at me. It sits oddly on his face, like it is incredibly forced.

'Get up. _Now._'

I don't object.

Huh. I found some energy left in me to be surprised. Moran didn't have the fake French accent anymore- it had shaped into the Russian one. I obliged, and stepped up the really steep step on the top. I glance at him without moving my head; he catches this movement and laughs.

'Do you know where we are, Doctor?' He purs in my ear. I shake my head, but he then takes it to yank my hair harder, jerking my head backwards to look at the number on the top of the door.

Oh. So _this _is what he meant.

There was no number. You have staircases in the hospital, and when there are doors on the staircases, it always leads to different wards. They are always numbered- until you get onto the roof.

'Remember now?'

I blinked, tears threatening to spill. Damn it! Why now? Is he just messing with me, trying to crack me, get into my head? What does he _want _from me?

He kicks open the door, and the breeze whips through my hair. London, from the roof of Barts, looks like a play thing that a child would mess with. It didn't look real-

Gah, oh _god!_ Kill me _please! _I grit my teeth as another stab of pain tears though me. I wonder if I'm going to be torn in half. Sherlock and Zaphira are kicking, banging about inside me, and I'm sure if I removed my jumper you could have actually seen my stomach moving.

I walk, and breathe a sigh of relief as the gun is removed from my back. The door slams shut. I am trapped, but I'm not to scared yet. Yet.

'Morning, Joanne. So long it's been, has it not?'

You know the part about me not being scared? Scratch that. Get rid of it. Erase the damn thing from _your _hard drive.

My stomach freezes. I slowly turn, only I know full well what is behind me. I could recognise that piercing and annoying Irish accent anywhere, at anytime; I just don't want to meet the eyes, the shaking head, the actual person lurking behind me.

Moriarty wasn't dead, after all.

'Where is Sherlock, Joanne?'

I blink, the memories resurfacing sharper than ever. 'Wait… what? I-I… he's dead.'

Moran clicks his tongue impatiently and rolls his muddy brown eyes. He is looks as if he is about to say something, but is quickly silenced by his boss. 'Mmm, no. Nice try, though. Where is he?'

He looks me up and down, his eyes lingering in a way around my stomach that makes me want to flinch away. He sees my face. I have no idea how I look- I kept my expression frozen as it is. Stony? Stubborn? Indifferent? How I wish I could see my face. Maybe it would give me better insight, or a tactic at least.

I grit my teeth, and worry gnaws at my stomach. I am in pain, and I'm not sure if it's the heat of the moment or the hormones, but I also have a millisecond to feel a little tearful and hurt- why isn't anyone coming? Surely someone must have seen me in the cab, or walking awkwardly up the stairs. A nurse, doctor, friend, Mrs Hudson- or _Mycroft, _isn't _he _the one who has the whole of England under CCTV? - must've noticed, or wondered.

Moriarty's face slackens, then he realises. The smile he gives is dazzling, before a quick glance at Sebastian confirms the great truth. If I am honest, I was surprised too- with all the systems he has hacked into, Mycroft's spy-cams must be no problem. I trifle, compared to the bank of England. So why didn't he? He would've seen straight away that I didn't know.

'Oh my God.' He grins, and circles around me like a lion waiting to devour its prey. Zaphira and Sherlock give a rather urgent kick at my stuttering heartbeat. 'You actually believe that?'

I was about to snap back, to say something to defend myself, but another contraction interrupts me rudely. With sinking worry, I realise this isn't fake- the pain isn't centred in my abdomen. The pain comes from everywhere, hotter than fire, more blinding than an electric shock. It feels like someone is taking a go at trying to shatter my back, abdomen and pelvis with a sledgehammer.

I give a cry and a tear rolls languidly on my cheek, without a care in the world. I make myself comfortable on the floor- or rather, as comfortable as I can possibly be- kneeling on the gritty floor with my legs slightly spread to relieve pressure. Moriarty leers over me, with Moran resting his head on Moriarty's shoulder and arms around the latters waist. Oh, jeez. This is awkward.

'You're pathetic. Look at you. I can't believe even _you-' _Moran spits the word out, as if it was poison in his mouth. '-can believe the lie that Sherlock fed you.'

I shake my head and stick my lip out defiantly. 'I don't know what you mean.'

Moran simply grins wider, revealing even more shiny white teeth. If I was in the mood, I could have probably seen the resemblance to a film star. Possibly Johnny Depp crossed with Norman Wisdom, or Lee Evans.

He presses his face close to mine- if we were any closer, we would be breathing in each-others air and carbon dioxide. The wind grabs at my hair, flinging it into my face.

'The casket was closed, wasn't it?'

I pause. What does the casket have to do with it? 'What?'

Suddenly I am stuck across the face by Moran. I never knew that man could move so fast, like a cobra. I reel backwards, accidentally toppling over.

'The casket,' he snarls again. 'At Sherlock's funeral. It was closed, was it not?'

_Oh god. No, this can't be happening. Not here, not now._

'It was closed. But Sherlock is dead, I saw the body.'

Moran frowned while I tried to concentrate on my breathing. In, out, in, out- like I had done to relieve the panic when I found out I was pregnant. This time it isn't working.

'_Oh!' _Moran starts after a few minutes, suddenly breaking out shrill barks of laughter. Moriarty smiles crookedly, before speaking.

'This is too _good;_ I was wondering how he would convince you.'

Another contraction stole my breath. _Just keep breathing, just keep breathing, just keep bre__athing…. _

'Oh my Goodness, Jimmy, I remember now.'

'Do you?' I snap, before turning to glare at them. 'Well, get it over with then!'

Both men stay silent- I'm not sure if Moriarty is contemplating what to do or he didn't know what to say next.

Suddenly the muzzle of both guns point to the bulge beneath my jumper. Moran this time walks forward and maintains eye contact as the cool metal presses with enough pressure as to not discharge, but as a silent warning.

I gulp.

* * *

_'Mycroft!'_

Sherlock almost ran into the side of the cab. After three minutes of searching the flat, he had concluded that Joanne, was in fact, not there.

Mycroft furrowed his eyebrows and massaged his temples. _Where would she _be?

'Oh!'

Sherlock looked murderous and desperate. Also quite strangely vulnerable.

'What?'

'She was due to go into hospital today, for her last check up. She would've stayed the night, before she was either induced or went into labour naturally.'

'So she is at the hospital?'

Sherlock slumped bonelessly in his seat while Mycroft had his head in his hands.

Once again, both of their phones buzzed at the same time. Sherlock scrambled for his and opened the message with shaking hands.

_Aha, good morning Sherly + Mycie. ;) I'm getting incredibly bored now. J's just whin__ging and whining __**all **__the time- my goodness, I do hope the kids are worth it. They'll be here soon._ ;-) _–JM+SMx_

Sherlock and Mycroft's stomachs were somewhere behind them on the busy London road.

'He's _alive?'_

'I assure you, Sherlock, even _I_ didn't know! How did he spend the past months avoiding me successfully?' Mycroft's gaze went back to the phone, then to Sherlock. He looked devastated.

They had no time to decide.

'Get us there.'

* * *

The terror suddenly hit me.

I had come down from my adrenaline high, now to be hit with such fear that I briefly stopped breathing. I bit my lip- what can I do? I'm stuck, and there is no way out. No one to come and rescue me, the stereotypical damsel in distress.

Moran hadn't moved away now. However, my eyes were solely on Moriarty- most annoying thing is that he keeps _twiddling _the damn gun. Throwing it from hand to hand, twirling it around his long and elegant fingers, before actually throwing it up in the air. When the gun fell dangerously before being heavily caught, I hope with all my life it would just discharge all ready. _Blow his face off_, I willed the gun. I can't do it myself. My stomach is too big for me to get up and lunge at him; I would only end up falling over. He is too far away for me to wrench it out of his hands. Oh, and there is the little fact that I was outnumbered by two men, one of which is an insane criminal assassin, the other with the grander title The Insane Criminal Mastermind. Both are heavier, stronger and faster.

I just have to wait it out.

I feel pressure, and it feels like my muscles from hip-bone to hip-bone are being pushed and stretched more than they can cope with. What _is_ this? Jesus, the diagrams from med school are not helping matters much. Nor are the horror stories I have heard of children being born within half an hour. I keep telling myself that normal labour lasts for twelve hours. I have ages to go, I keep telling myself, until another pang interrupts my train of thought and sends the worry into another spiral again.

I panic. When did my contractions get so close together? I groan and adjust my position.

Jim is talking to me, although I'm damned if I can hear what he is saying over the rush of blood pounding in my ears.

Both men are laughing. This is jumping on my last frayed nerve and I can feel the anger boiling, ready to spill over.

'Somehow, Sebby and I knew this would be-'

I Groan. More pain. I slide myself up onto the lip of the building, off of the floor, in a hope to get more comfortable.

Jim huffed, unsatisfied that my full attention wasn't on him. Moran gets the message and grabs my chin and thrusts it up so that I am looking at Moriarty. '-I mean, look. He has left you for over nine months now. And yet, he still hasn't come to rescue you, like some cliché over-rated movie-'

'Sherlock is _dead!_' I shriek, the anger breaking its rusty chains. The echo I can hear even over the rumbling traffic is surprisingly loud.

I am sick. I am tired. I am hormonal. I am upset, distressed, add any other bad adjective there, go ahead. I am all of these things and more; despite having much less the perfect company, Moriarty and his mechanical laughter, Moran pointing a gun at my bulging belly and Sherlock and Zaphira wanting to kick me to death, I feel dangerous. I could easily rip his eyes out and tear off his head _if he just got close enough!_

'He hasn't told you.'

Moran looks surprised, before he breaks off into harsh barks of laughter. Moriarty, however, does nothing but look at me with his reptilian eyes. I feel my eyes tearing up and stinging in frustration.

'He really hasn't told you.' Moriarty looks delighted, if a bit bemused. He shakes his head, before leaning down to kneel, like I am a small child.

'Sherlock isn't dead. He's been in Russia for the past few months, Jo-Jo, and I can assure you, you've been the furthest thing from his mind.'

I am aware I am chanting _'lies, lies, lies, lies' _over and over again, but there is a sinking feeling in my stomach. A niggle in my mind.

I shake my head. 'Sherlock wouldn't do that to me. Mycroft would know. One of them would tell me.'

I swear, if Moriarty's grin gets any wider his face would split. 'Oh, this is _precious!_ The two Holmes 'brothers'-' Moriarty actually stops to draw apostrophes in the air, '-working together, sworn enemies but at the same time two halves of a whole. Yin and Yang. God and the devil. Fire and water. But with one thing in common; their ability to deceive.' Moriarty breaks into hysterical laughter as suddenly Moran shoves me backwards.

I lay on my back, mind working fast. I am getting dangerously close to the edge of the building now. Would they keep shoving me until I toppled over the edge to my demise, just like Sherlock had?

Moriarty leans in closer than he has ever been before, and the way his tongue darts out to wet his parched lips is too slow to be natural, but it freaks me out and sends alarm bells ringing in my head all the same.

Moran bends down to Jim, and mutters something in his ear. Jim nods.

Jim lunges at me; however, I flinch and nearly topple over the lip of the building.

He pauses- I can feel his hands on me- and our faces are too close together to be comfortable. Zaphira and Sherlock are moving downward, I can feel them nudge more and more as each contraction rips through me.

After the initial shock, I realise where Jim's hands are. One is on my stomach, nails carefully digging into my jumper, leaving bruises; the other is wrapped around my throat. Squeezing. Constricting.

I try to use what little oxygen I have left to fuel my brain. If I dart away, I'll plunge to my death, just like Big Sherlock had; if I stay, Jim is going to strangle me.

Black stars start to invade my vision, the contractions coming faster and more painfully than ever. I can feel my body failing, my heart thumping in a desperate attempt to try and get the non-existent oxygen to my muscles.

I am suddenly falling into blackness. I try to gasp, but I can hear them both laughing. It's obviously not working.

This is how I'm going to die. Alone, with two maniacs by my side, letting my two unborn children die because I cannot get any oxygen. I am going to die.

Wait. _Hang on a moment._

My children. _MY _children didn't do anything to deserve this. I can feel them, kicking and flailing about. They are innocent. They don't deserve to die; they haven't even lived yet.

I struggle back into consciousness. Everything is a bit hazy, blurred, like someone has splashed water in my eyes and I haven't blinked.

Jim frowns at my eyelids fluttering open. I can hear him shouting, but it is like he is doing so underwater.

The hand gets tighter.

* * *

Mycroft and Sherlock run up the stairs.

Both men are out of breath, their hearts beating a fantastic rhythm, their muscles begging for release. They don't give it.

Sherlock is the first to burst through the door, and it ricochets off of the wall with a bang.

Moriarty and Moran start in surprise. Moran already has his gun raised and fired. Sherlock wasn't sure where it had gone- it certainly hadn't hit _him _or Joan- so he simply gritted his teeth and knocked the gun out of Moran's hands. Mycroft shoved him aside, but it wasn't malicious- it was a warning of what Moriarty was preoccupied in doing.

Jim had his rough and pale hands wrapped around Joan's throat. He grinned as Sherlock lunged towards him.

You see, when Jim moved away, he also did a little flick of the wrist. Jim Moriarty is a very strong man.

Far stronger than Doctor Watson, a heavily pregnant, delirious and dizzy woman, numerous pounds lighter and a number of inches smaller.

So, when Sherlock pounced, the flick of the wrist had enough force to nearly send Joan over the lip of the building. The only thing that kept her there was the bottom half of her body. However she was slowly slipping, inch by inch, over the edge. She was too weak to hold on, or to fight any longer.

Sherlock froze; for the first time since his death, he looked afraid.

Joan was gasping, her hand massaging the angry red mark around her throat. Her eyes were half closed, the energy wiped out of her; Sherlock could easily deduce that she had been hit, and dragged here against her will.

Right now, she looked world weary, terrified and confused. It sad oddly on her features- Sherlock had never seen that combination on her face before, and he felt his heart break.

He was angrier than he had ever been in his life.

Jim welcomed him with open arms. He was, as always, impeccably groomed; there wasn't a hair out of place, and he had even taken the liberty to wear a brand new, navy blue Westwood suit. He grinned at Sherlock and Mycroft, who was grappling with Moran and slowly dragging him out of the door.

'Hello, Sherlock!' The Irish accent was still there, tainted with English. It was like the criminal couldn't decide which suited him better, so he kept changing. Sherlock was sure he was unaware of it, but it made his hackles rise.

'Jim.' Sherlock nodded, his eyes always flickering between Joan and him. 'I thought you were dead.'

It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Joan wondered if she had accidentally died on the side of the building. This wasn't real.

'Makes two of us-'

'Bullshit! You knew I wasn't dead.'

'The game, Sherlock! I wanted to play the game.' He rolled his eyes. 'I must admit, I thought she was only for a quick fuck now and then, but it appears I was wrong. Although sentiment doesn't suit you.'

Sherlock kept silent, his eyes blazing. Jim continued. 'It isn't your classic fairytale, I'll admit. But you have the big bad wolf, the damsel, the hopeless king who always arrives far too _late._' He stepped forward menacingly. 'There won't be a happy ending, Sherlock.'

It was far too quick for Sherlock to react.

Jim pulled out a gun. He heard Mycroft shout, Joan scream, before he realised it wasn't pointed at Joan.

It was at him.

A bang, a flash of pain. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before; it was almost like someone pressing a white hot branding iron into his skin.

Sherlock was forced to his knees, his too long hair getting into his eyes. Blood was quickly soaking his jacket, and with a groan, he realised he had been shot on the swell of muscle on his shoulder. Right where neck meets shoulder, bright red blood was pulsating out of him at an alarming rate.

Jim stepped onto the lip of the building, before changing his mind, and sitting down next to Joan. He started to stroke her hair as tears rolled down her cheek.

'See, Joan-y, it is a shame.' He mused as Sherlock tried to stem the blood. 'You two were perfect. Shame I had to be in this beautiful picture.'

He was still stroking Joan's hair, which made Sherlock's blood boil. Joan was slowly losing consciousness, her eyes drooping.

Sherlock knew Joan was pregnant. However, he didn't know just _how _pregnant she would be. He could see her muscles twitch every so often, and fear pierced his heart- this was real labour, and judging by the rate her hips twitched every so often she was very close to the actual delivery.

Joan suddenly gasped and Jim's hand tightened in her hair. Sherlock grimaced.

'Didn't I tell you, Sherlock? Remember when I walked into your flat? Remember?' He got off of the lip of the building and casually strode over to Sherlock. He suddenly grabbed his lapels, spun and slammed him down next to his ex-lover. His ebony head hung over the edge.

'Remember, Holmes?' Jim dipped his head down so that his breath tickled the shell of Sherlock's ear. 'I… owe…. you.'

Sherlock was shaking. Joan grabbed his hand tight- she needed something, an anchor of sanity to stop her from slipping into the dark. Sherlock squeezed back.

'I told you Sherlock I would owe you. You have destroyed everything I have. It is only fitting that I return the favour.'

* * *

What happened next was very fast. I hardly caught it.

Mycroft had finished with Moran, and up until now he had seen very little of the on-going fight between Jim and Sherlock.

Upon seeing his brother about to slip off of the building, this time without the use of drugs, wires, and an ear piece, he had realised what was about to happen.

So he ran, and shoved Moriarty over the edge.

The shock I saw was priceless. I saw his face freeze then turn into a look of horror, as he suddenly plunged thirty stories below. Just like Sherlock had many months before.

I cannot find it in my heart to be mad. In fact, I can hardly find the energy to keep my eyes open.

He drags me off of the lip of the building and back onto the gritty floor. I try and see Sherlock's face. He is crying- I can see the little crystal droplets form from his ever-changing eyes and onto my face. One hand is cupping my face, and then he is kissing everywhere from my eyebrows to the palms of my hands. The other hand is trying to sooth the bruises on my throat.

I realise I am now crying to. I am crying because I am in pain. I am crying because I am hurt. Because I am angry. Relieved.

But I think I am crying because of the shock. I never thought I would see him again.

I can't hear what he is saying, but I'm not sure if I want to. It this turns out to be a fluctuation of my sanity, I want to keep his last real words to me to be what they were when he jumped. I don't think my heart could take this.

I reach up and wipe away a tear, not only out of tenderness or annoyance, but to check if he really is real.

'It is you.' I hear myself saying. I manage to laugh at how odd my voice has sounded after near strangulation.

'Yeah.' He nods, his lip trembling even though he tries to smile. My eyes find the wound in his shoulder, and I panic.

'Sherlock!' my voice cracks. 'You're hurt!'

He smiles and shakes his head, but I can see Mycroft look concerned.

I can see doctors and nurses arrive in a rush of blue. They tend to me, even though my children weren't even born yet. They rush to Sherlock, to try and heal the wound. They manage to stem the bleeding with swabs of cotton, but all the while Sherlock is still holding my hand. He is safe.

I can officially die happy. I simply let the blackness swirl and dull my vision, hugging me close, until I see no more.

* * *

I wake up.

It takes me a moment to realise where I am. Then I suddenly jolt up, only to groan as I realise that everywhere _aches. _Was I ran over without my consent or something? It feels like it.

Suddenly all the memories come flooding back.

'Oh!'

Suddenly a tall lean man with dark hair leans over me and gently presses me back down onto the pillows.

It takes me a moment to realise whom the anxious face belongs to.

'You!'

Sherlock bites his lip, uncharacteristically nervous.

I suddenly see red, and I feel white hot anger rise up like bile from my stomach to my throat.

'You! I thought you were dead!'

'Joan, I'm sorry-'

'Shut up, Sherlock!' I yell, tears suddenly rising and spilling over. I wipe them away with my forearm, only to realise that it wasn't covered in a smooth black jumper. It is bare skin- so, by that logic, I am in a hospital gown. 'Get over here.' When he doesn't, I get somehow even madder. 'Now!'

He hesitantly walks over, and stares at me. I pause for a moment, before I give him such a wallop smack bang on the cheekbone that he starts. Of course, I am weaker than him, but it still raises and angry mark.

'You have _so much _explaining to do!'

Sherlock is about to move away from me, probably worried that I'll smack him again, but I pull him by the hand so he sits on the bed. Sherlock looks at me.

I realise just how _ill _he looks; the cheekbones are sharper than ever, his dark hair somewhat matted and dirty, just handing over his eyes and his skin doesn't even have a flush of colour like it used to.

My anger isn't gone. It is nowhere near gone. It probably will never _be _gone. But for the time being, I will have to grin and bear it until I can process such information and not go mad with it.

The way he looks at me makes me suddenly realise he came here to apologise, but he didn't expect to be forgiven.

I hug him fiercely, burying my face in his collar. I inhale his scent, feel him underneath my trained fingers.

I am crying.

I now know what for. I never thought I would see him again, and now I have so much of him in such a short time it's almost overpowering.

Once I stop bawling into his shoulder, I find that he is wincing. I quickly let go. It must be hard to see me again, I realise. I stare guiltily at my hands.

'No, no!' he says urgently, reading me once again. He takes my hands in his, but I can't bear to look at him. It'll be too much, and I'll just start to cry again. 'It's not you, it never was you, it's just my shoulder.'

I feel my eyebrows slacken in the way they do when I am shocked. I quickly unzip his hoodie and pull down the stretchy fabric. I didn't really know what to expect- but I was met with a rectangular white piece of cotton.

Everything comes back with crystal clear clarity.

'Oh, god!' I put my hand over my mouth and talk through my fingers. 'You were s_hot?'_

Sherlock nods. I suddenly reach for my stomach, only to realise that I hadn't felt Sherlock or Zaphira move since I woke up. I patted my stomach, only to realise it wasn't as round- not by much, but a bit. I panic.

'Where-'

'Joan, listen-'

'No, Sherlock, you listen to me.' I snap at him, giving him a glare for good measure. 'Where are they? Where are my babies?'

'You went into labour,' Sherlock explains, and I fall silent. 'But because of all the stress that you went through, something went wrong. After A and B were delivered, your uterus wouldn't close up properly. You were bleeding- there was just so much blood… I-I…' Sherlock voice cracked. 'I thought I had lost you. You were just limp, lifeless. It was like a terrible nightmare, only I was awake.'

'Not nice, is it? Thinking I was dead?' I snap. Ooops- I shouldn't have said that. Morphine always makes me a bit mean. Sherlock bows his head in shame, and I feel bad.

'No, it's not. I am so, so sorry Joanne. You have no idea.'

We sit in silence for a minute. I don't really know what to say, until I realise I can hear the beeping of a monitor beside me.

'So why am I here then?'

'Why do you think?' Sherlock tries not to roll his eyes, but fails. 'Anyway, because of the blood loss, you went into hypovolemic shock. You've been asleep for days.'

Fear penetrates my stomach.

'How many days?'

Sherlock glances at his watch, and I realise that he is in the same outfit he had worn when we were on the roof.

'Sherlock, you haven't been home?'

Sherlock's head snaps up, his expression between shock and confusion. 'Home?'

'Yes. Home. In 221B, the flat we rent?'

His eyes suddenly smart, which is quite unusual and a bit alarming. 'But... you called it home. You _still_ consider it mine and yours?'

I look at him like he has gone mad. Then again, it wouldn't surprise me if he had.

I look at him.

_I love you._

I don't say it, but I think he knows by the look in my eyes and face. I am silently challenging him to make a deduction._ Find me. Find where my heart lies._

After a moment, Sherlock clasps my hand. He knows.

'Wait, what do you mean by 'A' and 'B'?'

Sherlock looks a bit embarrassed, which sits oddly on his features. 'What else am I supposed to call them?'

I then realise who he is referring to, and I laugh my head off. When I finally can stop laughing for a few seconds, I answer him. 'You mean our _children?_'

Sherlock nods, and I think he isn't sure whether to look hopeful or nervous. 'The hospital doesn't know, and Mycroft refuses to tell me. I haven't forgotten, but I'm nervous of making a mistake. He said, 'Sherlock, if I tell you and she doesn't, she'll come after my blood.'' Sherlock makes a face.

'Where are they?'

Sherlock says nothing, he just indicates for me to follow him.

We creep through the hospital- it seems to be late at night- and we go through numerous doors. We go through the numbers upon numbers of cots, until I see the one. I instantly know which is mine.

I rush up, to find that both are awake. They gurgle happily and kick their tiny little legs in joy at finally seeing their Mummy. There is one, obviously Zaphira, who has a shock of black hair, and then Sherlock, who has a fine little fuzz of blond.

They are both perfect, beautiful little things. I wonder what I have done in a past life to deserve everything I have gotten in the short space of time.

Sherlock ghosts behind me, leaning over my shoulder. I am busy cooing and playing with Sherlock and Zaphira to notice.

'Hello there.' I coo at my children, as they blink doe-ishly up at me. Little Sherlock remains serious, allowing himself a small smug smile, while Zaphira squeals.

'Adorable, aren't they? I made sure they saw you every day- they recognise you.' I can feel him smile into my shoulder. 'They're a week old- the girl is older than the boy. What are their names?'

'Well, this one is called Zaphira,' I smiled as she grinned at me, clutching my little finger in her whole fist. 'Zaphira Tiffany Gracie Holmes.' I _know_ Sherlock is blushing. 'And this one-' I point to Small Sherlock, who lifts his head. '-Is called Sherlock. Sherlock Mycroft Agathangelos Holmes.'

'Sherlock?' Big Sherlock frowns. 'But if you did that for some noble reason…'

'Yes?'

'Well, it's sort of invalid now, isn't it?' Sherlock bit his lip. 'I'm not dead.'

I shrug. 'I don't care. Are you okay on the names?'

'I like Zaphira's name, but we'll probably get confused with the two Sherlocks.' I frown, and I can tell he is trying to word it in a way that wouldn't offend me. 'How about Hamish?'

'Hamish?' I wrinkled my brow- _where had I hear that before?_

Sherlock looks at me sheepishly. 'Yeah, I know… but I've always liked it.'

I smile. I look at 'Hamish'- in my opinion he looks like a Sherlock, but he was right- everyone probably would get confused.

'It's an argument for another day. Let it grow on me, and we'll see.'

'Good enough for me.'

He hesitantly wrapped his arms around my waist and I didn't object. In fact, I leaned into the embrace. I am content. Safe. Sherlock is by my side, and really, that's what I want. All I want.

Yes, I suppose I should be angry. But I've spent over nine months worrying that Sherlock will become evanescence to me, that I will forget. And now, he is here; I can feel his heat, his arms around my still swollen middle, his breath in the shell of my ear. Moriarty and Moran are no more. We are safe. I hug him back and smile.

And guess what? Even after all this, after so many months of feeling regected, I am happy. I finally know it, the great truth, one of which I have been questioning for months; Sherlock really_ does_ love me too.


	18. Epilogue: Scars and Secrets

**You know what I said about the previous chapter being the last? I lied (I hope you won't be mad!). This IS the last chapter of BITYLM2, but I am thinking of making another fic about their kids. This is dedicated to my lovely Trufflehead- I can't have done it without her! Also, this is to comemorate our first two months of talking! Yup, on the 8th of May we sent our first ever messages and our awsome friendship has been blooming from there. :)**

The next few weeks were the hardest of my life.

It's not that I didn't trust Sherlock- okay, that's a lie. I didn't. Sort of.

I think it was more I didn't trust myself.

It has been said that time heals all wounds. I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue. The pain lessens, but it is never fully gone. _He _left me, an empty shell of a person, with a hole blown straight through my chest where my heart used to be. And my brain- He and I are yin and yang, heart and brain, coexisting together, like light and dark, dark and light. There is one, so there must be the other.

I struggled through my pregnancy. Don't doubt me on that. Every day, hour, minute, and second I could've easily given up, broken. But I didn't. That was the wounds, healing, never fully gone. Still throbbing, aching and yearning for the person I thought was dead.

Sherlock Holmes.

I now know they will never be gone. The memories still give me nightmares, and it is never of Afghanistan. Now I think about it, ever since I moved into 221B I knew something was different, special about the strange man I was with- my dreams of Afghanistan vanished. In its place were dreams about him being taken from me, from the likes of Moriarty and Sebastian. It took me months to figure out what it really was, and why, and a further two years figuring out how to tell him.

My nightmares still plague my nights. It is of him, falling, his coat bellowing around him like smoke. His hair flying up and the look of utter shock on his face. The dread that hit my stomach as I watched the one person I had plunge down thirty stories to the unforgiving pavement below. I will never forget it.

I wake up, in states of shock. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I shriek. Other times I say nothing at all. But he knows. He always knows. Sherlock is always there in a flash, holding me, wiping the sweat off of my forehead, murmuring in my ear. I am grateful, always, but is it enough? He was the one who went to the extremes, who drugged me, inserted an earpiece and even went as far as to plan his own damn funeral.

Writing this, reading this, I am angry. It seems that Sherlock wasn't the one who had to heal, pick up the broken pieces of shattered heart and try and stick them together. He wasn't the one who had to cut off half of himself, go back to being a singular entity; a tragic, tortured woman of war. A doctor with a funny limp. He wasn't the one who had to bear the massive scar down the centre of his psych to remind himself of what he had left behind.

I did.

Would it have been better if, when I was shot, the other doctors and nurses didn't bother to restart my heart? I would've died, right there in Afghanistan, without meeting him. It would've saved me my sanity, my tears and my heart-

Suddenly, something stops my anger in its tracks. I hear a shriek, but this time it is not my own; it is that of laughter. I set down my journal and pull back the net curtains to look into the garden.

A boy with spiky blonde hair, a short, thin frame and piercing blue-grey eyes glances as the net curtain rustles. The girl with long ebony hair carries on shrieking and laughing as her brother adds more and more blocks to a tower, regardless of what the neighbours may think. My anger dissolves.

Without Sherlock, I would never have had them.

I would've never had Sherlock and Zaphira. I would've never met Sherlock and fallen dizzily in love. I would've never had anything to show for my life so far.

It has been said that time heals all wounds. I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue, and the pain lessens, but it is never gone. I will trust Sherlock again, one day, just not today, or tomorrow. I don't know when. The scar is still there, a ghostly white, Sherlock shaped scar, and I will bear it down the centre of me for as long as I live. I love him. He broke my heart. He didn't trust me with information, nor did he trust me to keep my mouth shut. It hurts to know that.

But, even after all this, I love him.

I will never deny it, nor say it when I really don't mean it. But, if I didn't love him, I would've turned around and said 'to hell with you' when he came back. It took me months to figure out why I didn't trust him. I glance at the man himself, then at the clock, which displays the date, then at my two children outside.

'Sherlock?'

He looks up, his eyes fearful. They always look like that now. Especially when I ask a question.

I brush the blonde hair out of my eyes and stick my chin out defiantly.

'Look after them, will you? I'm going out.'

…

I place a bouquet with red, pink, white, lavender, orange and yellow roses. I remember all those months ago, lost count of the meanings…. Eternal love, beauty, intense emotions, grace, desire, carelessness…. Sherlock had them all.

I look at the cold marble, saying my lovers name and what I had requested. The wind kisses my cheek. A tear rolls down my face at the memories.

Realisation hits me like a battering ram.

All secrets are deep. All secrets become dark. That's in the nature of secrets. But now that it is no longer a secret, how can it be dark? Having thrust it into the light, my chest lightens. I feel instantly happier.

Standing in front of Sherlock's grave alone, reflecting back on the man whom I'd loved, lost and then found again, I realise what has been missing. I have been waiting for myself to forgive him for what he has put me through. I don't want him to say it, I want to _feel _it. I want my chest to lighten and my heart flutter as I _forgive him. _

The secret of my mind has finally broken free of it's cage. I realize that I has already forgiven Sherlock. From the moment that selfish, mad bastard pulled me off of the lip of the building, ignoring his own injuries, that I had forgiven him. I had been waiting for some grand revelation, for the lifting of his spirit or a freaking neon sign to say to my conscious mind that my unconscious had forgiven him. There's been no such moment the past few weeks because it's already happened.

I am irrevocably in love with Sherlock Holmes.

I believe in Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
